Why are so many people so miserable, so stressed, and so disappointed these days?

While I am a witness that life has a way of squatting over you, pulling its pants down, and taking a massive shit, I also know that life can be as beautiful as wild flowers in the middle of spring. I know that days can be cruel, but days can be kind. I also know that not everyone everywhere is living up to their fullest potential, but little pockets of happiness exist and keep them pushing until their wishes become their reality.

So, again, the question presented itself.

Why are so many people so miserable, so stressed, and so disappointed these days?

I didn’t have the answer that day as I sat in my study. I didn’t have the answer the next day, as I combed my hair either. But new thoughts continued to arise.

Surprisingly, it’s not just adults affected by this wave of unhappiness. Children are victims too. Teens and pre-teens, especially. And, so are the grade-schoolers.

It wasn’t until my back was dripping with sweat and my legs started to burn from my time on the treadmill days later that the answer I’d been searching for found me.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s silent, sometimes unintentional competition.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s a deep desire to have exactly what someone else is in possession of.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s anxiousness to be rewarded in one year what it took someone else ten years to receive.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s greed.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s discomfort from the pursuit of someone else’s reality.

And, sadly, consumption is to blame. Long ago, I denounced the mere idea of personal social media accounts. It feels too much like a stage. Almost everything is performative, intentionally and unintentionally.

I separate myself from my artistry for this very reason. I don’t want to matter (to strangers), consuming my words. All that matters is my message, the feeling they get when they pull open the pages of my book, and how sad they are to see another one end. That’s it.

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I understand how hard it is to separate your reality from others’ when proximity is determined by accessibility now. And, frankly, almost everyone is accessible online. But what’s happening online is hardly ever the full truth.

Only parts of your life are displayed for the world to see.

To study.

To analyze.

To digest.

To hate.

To love.

To judge.

To consume.

To visualize.

To fantasize.

To yearn.

To crave.

To obsess over, knowingly and unknowingly.

Then, the comparison begins. Not long after come the changes.

Words. Wardrobe. Routines. Rituals. Clothes. Colors. Locations. Hair. Makeup. Poses. Interests. Hobbies. Goals. Desires.

The lines blur so easily and so swiftly that you’ll miss the merge if you blink.

My child came to me one day and said, “---’s life is so fun. They play with their parents every day, all day. They even turned their home into a full playhouse. I wish we could do that.”

That day, YouTube became a thing of our past.

Because just as comparison is the thief of joy, misery thrives in the pursuit of someone else’s reality.

I decided to end the continuous consumption of pieces and portions of a life that my six-year-old had begun comparing to theirs.

“Having fun is their job, baby. Playing all day, every day, is their parents’ job, too. And, it’s the payments from the videos you watch of theirs that made them decide to turn their home into a big office where they can work all day, every day. Are you ready for a job?”

“No.”

The answer was clear. Theirs and mine. While I was able to stop my child from falling into the abyss that consuming others’ lives too often and too vulnerably creates, there’s no one to catch most people.

There’s no one telling them to stop scrolling.

There’s no one in their home to keep them too busy to have their faces in their phones.

There’s no one in their home to keep them from binging reality shows.

There’s no one in their circle to warn them against the dangers of overconsumption.

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Too much of anything becomes a problem. We’ve heard it so many times before. It remains true.

And the problem with consuming so much of someone’s reality is that it’s making people miserable.

Not because life sucks so much, but because they don’t have what someone else has.

Not because they don’t have money in their account, but because they don’t have as much money as someone else has.

Not because their home isn’t beautiful, but because it isn’t big as the one someone else has.

Not because they don’t have a roof over their head, but because they don’t own the roof over their head like someone on their feed who just purchased a home.

Not because they don’t have a job, but because they don’t work for themselves like someone else does.

Not because they aren’t in a good place in life, but because they aren’t in the place someone else is at in life.

Not because they aren’t stable, but because they aren’t wealthy like someone else.

Not because their parents aren’t in their lives anymore, but because their parents didn’t hand down riches like someone else’s parents did.

Not because their cell is off, but because they don’t have the latest one like someone else does.

Not because they are unhappy single or in their relationship, but because they aren’t married like someone else is.

Not because they don’t have food in their fridge, but because it isn’t organized in useless containers like someone else on their timeline.

Not because their children aren’t thriving, but because they aren’t as knowledgeable as someone else’s baby genius online.

Not because they don’t look good, but because they don’t look as good as someone else on social media.

Not because they aren’t liberated, but because they don’t take as many vacations as someone else online.

Not because they hate being a mother, but because someone without children is always having fun in their stories.

Not because life isn’t good, but because it isn’t as great as someone else’s.

It breaks my heart. It rips holes in my soul. It brings tears to my eyes, knowing that…

1. The happiness of so many people is dependent upon their closeness to someone else’s reality.

2. Validation soothes the souls of so many, and without it, they’re soulless. Heartless. Careless.

3. Misery is so fluent yet so misinterpreted in our days.

4. No one knows themselves anymore. Individuality is a dying art, and greed is the new sheriff in this town. Because one can’t help but force the belief that if she/he has it, then I should have it too.

5. So many beautiful minds have been lost to the harsh conditions that consumption breeds.

6. Consumerism doesn’t only kill us physically. It’s collecting minds, souls, and emotions for its graveyard.

7. Relationships, friendships, and genuine connections have had their bridges burned by these invisible monsters.

8. It’s a never-ending cycle. Even the babies are feeling it.

Reyna Biddy said, “When love is real, you gather your bones and make supper anyway.”

Now that I’ve answered the question that circled in my head for weeks, I have a new one. But, it isn’t for me. It’s for you if any part of this article has sounded remotely close to your current position.

Is the love you have for yourself real enough for you to gather your bones and make supper anyway?

Because what’s on their plate can’t fill your belly. You don’t like the same foods, and you don’t drink your water at the same temperature. You are particular about your spices, and the beef on their plate will have you breaking your red meat fast. You hate the big light and warming your seconds on paper plates. You only eat with silverware, never plastic.

Don’t tarnish your greatness by trailing someone else’s. Put down the phone. Stop masking duplication with inspiration. Move out of that lane. Keep your eyes on your own paper. Stop visiting their page. Stop studying them. Stop scrolling. Stop consuming. Start creating. Or not.

Retrieve your individuality and create a life that yesterday’s you would be proud of. Because you’re not miserable, babe, you’re in pursuit of something that doesn’t belong to you. Fix your GPS, and you’ll see the sun shining a little further down this dark road. You’ve got this.

Now, go on home to yourself. They’re waiting.

If you love pieces like the woman you’ve read, immersed in feminine richness, you’d love my snail mail club, The September Letter. The list opens monthly on the 1st and closes on the 18th. Here’s how you join —> click.

And there’s nothing more disappointing than having a willing participant who simply doesn’t know how you need it that particular day… time… place…

Because, let’s face it, how you want to be handled today is probably not how you want to be handled this weekend. Or tomorrow morning. Or during lunch hour.

We don’t have time for him to figure it out—every time, because every time things change. Needs change. Desires change. Climate changes. The last thing you want your partner to do is fail the pop quiz.

Set him up for success.

Give him the study guide. Hand over your notes. No one knows your body like you do.

I want to die a well-fucked woman.

If you do not wish to do the same, this post is not for you. Keep scrolling Substack.

Since my late twenties, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the concept of a woman’s selflessness during the most intimate moments of her life.

Namely… sex.

Studies prove that women rarely reach their orgasmic transition during sex with their partner. However, almost 100% of the time, men climax.

The difference is staggering. And, there’s only one explanation.

Women often shrink in the bedroom, giving men more room to expand.

But, in order to die a well-fucked woman, you must reserve space for your pussy to unleash its powers.

If you’re completely satisfied with everything your partner is doing in bed and you do not have trouble getting to higher grounds, then your read ends here.

If you’re considering opening your drawer and grabbing your vibrator once he’s fast asleep beside you, then keep reading.

Understand that this article isn’t to criticize the effort of men, because most of them try. However, there’s often a learning curve… as I’ve stated…

When that familiar throb begins between your thighs, there’s a certain way it needs to be rubbed away… kissed away… stroked away… sucked away… licked away…

And there’s nothing more disappointing than having a willing participant who simply doesn’t know how you need it that particular day… time… place…

Because, let’s face it, how you want to be handled today is probably not how you want to be handled this weekend. Or tomorrow morning. Or during lunch hour.

____

“I want to die a well-fucked woman.”

My declaration was formed strictly due to my willingness to help orchestrate my well-fucked reality.

I am not a robot. I will not lie down and accept every stroke or every touch or every lick that is handed to me.

Because I understand that my submission only materializes after my partner has mastered my course. Before then, my body is a study.

study: noun

a room used or designed for reading, writing, or academic work.

I am the instructor. I am the tutor. I am the tour guide. I am the coach.

And, our curriculum is as follows:

Module 1: Vocal

Express your desires, limits, truths, discomfort, and curiosities before your back is against the wall or on the sheets of the bed.

“These are my sensitive areas.”

“I’m aroused when my nipples are touched.”

“I am more stable on the couch than on a soft mattress.”

“I like to be licked here.”

“I’m a kisser. I can kiss until my mouth is sore.”

“My favorite position is on all fours.”

“I like the sound of our skin touching.”

“My orgasms are more intense when I am lying down.”

“I am a big fan of foreplay.”

“I swallow.”

“I spit.”

“We must use protection unless you present paperwork that’s evidence of your negative statuses.”

“Wee hours and morning sex are best for me. So is weekend sex. Week nights, I’m exhausted and can’t promise a stellar performance.”

“I’ve always wanted to try anal.”

“Anal is a hard limit.”

“I don’t find pleasure in — position.”

“A finger in my butt makes me cum harder.”

“I like when you eat it and then take it out and then eat it and then put it back in.”

“When your finger is pressed against my clit, and you’re inside of me, that drives me insane.”

“I don’t like when you’re sloppy down there. It feels better when you’re licking with precision.”

“Clit stimulation is key to eating my pussy.”

Don’t be shy. Get vocal about your well-fucked reality. Because if you don’t, you will continue to seek satisfaction beyond intimate encounters with your partner.

Module 2: Virtual

Let’s consider this a tutorial of sorts. I fully believe that the secret to a well-fucked reality is masturbation and the confidence that stems from it.

Play with your pussy, babe.

It is the only true way to understand your body, how it works, what makes it go boom, how gentle or how hard, where, why…

All the questions you have surrounding your well-fucked reality can be answered by touching yourself. You’ll discover nearly everything you need to know.

So, before you teach a lesson, be sure to master the lesson yourself. And, once you have, invite your partner in for a session.

No penetration.

He’s a spectator, not a participant.

Show him exactly what you do to get to where you need to be. Allow him to collect notes. Be sure he’s focused. And, don’t hold back.

Let him see what your body can do, how it sounds, the different methods of pleasure, the pressure points, and all there is to know about his study.

Light bulbs will go off in his head frequently. New techniques will be noted. Additional channels will be opened. And, his readiness will be at its peak.

Module 3: Vocational

Once you’ve given him a tutorial… a course…

It’s time for coursework. It’s time to put his studies to the test. He’s still in the classroom, but clinicals have started.

During this time, it should be understood that the vocational period is instructional. While he has the lead, a detailed synopsis will summarize your findings.

Let him have his way.

But, be reminded of our first module.

Get vocal.

“Right here.”

“Right there.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Speed up.”

“Slow down.”

“Harder.”

“Kiss me here.”

“Touch me there.”

“Bite me.”

“Choke me.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Too rough.”

Tailor your experience. Help him understand what you want and don’t want. What you need and don’t need. He doesn’t know most of the time and has been trying to figure this out on his own. Your silence has been a disservice to both of you.

Open your mouth.

Get vocal.

Get physical.

Place your hand where you want his. Move his hand to where you need it to be. Open your mouth when you want to be kissed. Admit when it doesn’t feel good. Be honest about your climax or lack of. Touch yourself while he’s inside of you. Touch yourself while you pleasure him.

Find comfort in expressing your sexual frustrations, needs, and fantasies with the person who is stroking your pussy every chance he gets. Because, I can assure you he’s going to find his sweet spot and reach his peak every time. You have to do the same.

Module 4: Volcanic

Now that he understands your body.

Where to touch you.

How to touch you.

When it’s best to touch you.

And, clinicals have come to an end… It’s time to activate your volcano and prepare yourself for eruption after eruption.

Now, orgasms are a shared experience and not a selfless act of submission.

You can fully submit in the bedroom because you were the instructor for the tour guide. He knows what he’s doing because you taught him. You trust him.

Once he sees just how gratifying it is to know your body, his studies won’t end with what you’ve taught him. He will further his education, and you will become the student. You will begin to learn things about your body that he discovered through his studious nature.

Let’s face it…

Some men will come into your life and teach you almost everything you know about your pussy.

Others will need instruction. It doesn’t make them any less qualified to handle your body than a man who knows women well.

Your comprehension of this article is likely based on the man who is currently in your world. I hope you received something you can carry with you either way.

Because my life’s goal is to not only be well-fucked but to empower women through my column.

Head.

Heart.

Body.

Soul.

Pockets.

Pussy.

I can’t leave any stone unturned here. So, unleash your power. The world is hardly ready for a well-fucked woman.

She’s confident.

She’s radiant.

She’s undeniable.

She’s unstoppable.

To the girls who are well-fucked, toast to you, boo.

To the girls who are on their way to being well-fucked, speak up, babe.

xo,

grey

If you love pieces like the woman you’ve read, immersed in feminine richness, you’d love my snail mail club, The September Letter. The list opens monthly on the 1st. Here’s how you join —> click.

Cheers to more of those in 2026.

There’s a certain kind of woman in this world who is (utterly and consistently) revered in my head… and heart. But to the world, she’s often dismissed, degraded, or downright hated (on).

Most of the time, this woman enters a room and garners nasty looks or thoughts from half the people inside. And that’s before she even opens her mouth. Most times, she won’t. But if she does, the rest of the room might despise her, too.

All except for those who admire her. Who commends her. Who relates to her. And, except for me.

Not even an hour at my vanity could bring me clarity as to why. I put the caps back on my beauty pieces, secured my sponge inside of my dusting powder, and put away my brushes, still not knowing where the distastefulness is born for such tasteful creatures.

Because truthfully… I want to be friends.

Over the last two years, I’ve voiced my desire to be friends with the type of woman who cares about hardly anything more in life than her beauty.

A vain woman.

A conceited.

Arrogant.

Haughty.

Downright vanglorious woman.

To so many degrees, I am confident that we are quite linear.

While conceit and arrogance and haughtiness and vainness are weaponized against women who are sure of themselves, their worth, their values, and their goals… I find them pretty damn impressive.

I’m not referring to the empty, desolate souls. I’m referring to the impactful, joyous, and genuine souls. The ones who have had that ‘it’ factor from birth. It wasn’t learned, taught, or bought.

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What’s the matter with being conceited as a woman who is the actual birther of LIFE?

Arrogant?

Haughty?

Vain?

And, what’s the matter with putting all of your energy into your appearance or your beauty or your wardrobe?

We’ve given far more to others for far less and end up disappointed ALMOST ALWAYS.

I’ve watched ‘hopeless romantic’ women pour their energy into relationships that shattered their entire nervous systems and left them without a tear in their ducts.

I’ve watched ‘happily married’ women pour their energy into marriages that crumbled like old, stale cookies, even after they tried their hardest to make it work.

I’ve watched ‘highly educated’ women pour their energy into their education only to end up with the same pay as a non-qualified, uneducated candidate or a job that doesn’t align with their major.

I’ve watched ‘working’ women pour their energy into companies and corporations only to be passed up by male peers who have benefited from work they didn’t even do.

I’ve watched mothers pour their energy into children who resent them for working hard to provide better circumstances and surroundings.

I’ve watched church women…

I’ve watched ‘stay at home moms’…

I’ve watched writers…

I’ve watched teachers…

I’ve watched women…

Women all over…

Women everywhere…

Pour their energy into people, situations, education, relationships, marriages, and the list continues…

Only to the benefit of others.

So when the world encounters a woman who pours the bulk of her energy into herself, the problem occurs.

It’s as if she is wearing a big, bold tag on her back that reads…

“Others are hardly allowed to benefit from me.”

Boy does it look damn good on her.

The thing about vain women that scares others is—

She’s always having her way. The amount of energy she pours into her beauty is usually the same amount of energy she pours into every other aspect of her life—unintentionally, most times. It’s simply who she is.

• One laugh and the guys at the tire shop are rotating her tires and changing her oil for free when they don’t even offer oil changes.

• One smile at the GM of the restaurant and the tab is covered. Not because she’s flirting, but because she kept the guys sitting at the bar spending money longer just to flirt with her.

• One nice outfit and one extra hour getting ready, and the line at the door of the hottest restaurant suddenly doesn’t exist. Somehow, those reservations that were at capacity seem to open for her and a friend.

• One sappy look and the attendant is making ‘an exception just this one time’.

• One request and it is granted, even by strangers.

There’s a small part of the world that BENDS for a vain woman. The other part of it CRIES, SULKS, or SECRETLY WISH THEY WERE HER.

The vain woman is not oblivious to the differences between her and the average woman. She also understands she’s not average. She will never try to be or pretend to be. No.

Because she is a reaper for women (average, above average, or incredibly vain). An ally. A teammate. A partner. Even if the feelings aren’t mutual. She reaps benefits that have been stolen from women for far too long.

She understands that women hardly have a chance to thrive/win in life. We’re only at ease approximately 12 days out of each month.

We have periods.

We have babies.

We have fibroids.

We have PCOS.

We have to cook.

We have to clean.

We have breasts.

We’re underpaid.

We’re unappreciated.

We’re disrespected.

We lactate.

We populate the world, and still we are NOT revered. We are hardly even respected. So, that little selfishness that rolls off a woman’s skin in the form of vainness, it is electrifying.

In bold letters, underneath the declaration that others are hardly welcome to benefit from her, I see, “This is my superpower. This is my act of rebellion. This is how I will be remembered, because we are hardly remembered unless we’re doing something for someone else. This time, one of us will be remembered for doing something for ourselves.”

Truth is, we’re the only certain parts of our worlds. We’re the only person we can truly trust. We’re the only person we can truly count on.

It feels counterproductive when we aren’t introspective, somewhat selfish, or vain.

I fully support women who—

Pour into themselves.

Blot their faces when their makeup begins to oil.

Lotion their bodies in no hurry at night.

Carry compact mirrors in their purses.

Runs to the restroom every few minutes to check their appearance.

Only wears her finest pieces in public.

Walks with her head high.

Keeps an extra pair of shades near.

Visits the nail salon so much that they know her name by heart.

Spend hours in the mirror making sure every piece is in place.

Calls her stylist out of bed for emergency appointments.

Travel the world to enjoy spas all over the world.

Aren’t afraid to talk about themselves.

Are up on the latest trends, although she understands she is THE TREND.

Sleep in silk scarves on silk pillows.

Sits at her vanity until her legs grow numb.

The world never has to wonder about. They always know why she’s chosen, despised, admired, disliked, and revered.

The vain woman…

Her rituals are sacred.

Her jewels are beautiful.

Her presence is awakening.

Her smile is radiant.

Her movements are calculated.

Her time is precious.

Her presence is an allegiance.

to her peace.

to her nerves.

to her heart.

to her mind.

to her soul.

to her smile.

to her happiness.

to her joy.

to her emotions.

to her body.

to her systems… all of them.

Her vanity is breathtaking. And, there’s a deeper meaning to her existence than her beauty.

She’s not the enemy. She’s an ally. So is her entire purse that serves as an arsenal for the woman in need of a blot towel, lotion, compact mirror, mint, or hair spray. She’s the secret weapon to winning many levels of womanhood.

If you love pieces like the woman you’ve read, immersed in feminine richness, you’d love my snail mail club, The September Letter. The list opens monthly on the 1st. Here’s how you join —> click.

Maid Fohr Love was born out of sheer uncertainty and the fear of the unknown. The reference became too tough for me, so I shelved the book. I was going through the actual crisis while trying to sweeten it. That wasn’t working.

People were dying. Everything had closed. The market was crashing. Nurses were fighting for their lives. Hospitals were full to the brim. People’s ears were peeling from masks. Mothers were birthing babies alone. And, the list continues.

At the beginning of the year, I finally started to get over the madness of COVID. The first project I picked up was Maid Fohr Love. I reworked the outline and tweaked a few story details. When I started penning, my fingers wouldn’t stop.

What I was left with was an undeniable, incredibly beautiful display of love. This book summarizes what it feels like to be adored. Enamored. Considered. Admired. No matter the circumstances.

It puts into words what happens when a man is utterly obsessed with you—in the healthiest way.

While I had so many favorite parts, I’ve chosen one to share with you.

Note: Fohr is mine for the keeping.

Maid Fohr Love - read here.

Draped in a rust-colored two-piece that complemented her orange undertones, Kit waltzed past me as if she didn’t understand the magnitude of her presence and how effective it was on me. Without a care in the world, she disarmed me. Uprooted me. Displaced every feeling I’d ever felt in my entire life and made me wonder if there’d ever been one greater than encountering her.

Nah. I admitted as my lips parted to speak.

Letting her walk away unscathed was not on that list of things to do that I was toying with moments prior. Though she was walking at a somewhat normal rate, it felt like she was moving at a snail’s pace and as swift as a bunny simultaneously. I was unsure of when or how soon I’d lose sight of her.

“Kit–” I called behind her, stopping her in her tracks.

She didn’t move another inch. My voice commanded her attention. Proudly, I stiffened my chest. There wasn’t a ball I’d knocked out of the park or a deal I’d signed that made me feel more accomplished. More successful. More purposeful. Though hard to explain, I didn’t care to explain what was happening inside of me since meeting Kit.

I awaited those orbs I was growing to love seeing as much as I did the rising of the sun each day. She was in no hurry. She never was. On her time and only when she was ready did she turn around. Her shoulders, which had rounded upon hearing her name roll off my tongue, squared as she stood tall.

“Yes, Mr. McClarren.”

Slightly offended by her distinction of our personal and professional relationship, I sniggered.

The things I want to do to you, Ms. Delucca, are far from professional. Everything about that shit is personal.

I allowed my invasive thoughts to linger a few seconds before ignoring Kit’s angle altogether. Instead, I redirected the conversation to the place it was meant to be from the start.

“Your beauty is staggering,” I claimed, “You look– stunning this evening.”

The words settled in as she stared back at me. There was magic in those eyes. A glimpse of pain, but not very much. Everything about Kit told me she was loved well, raised well, taught well, fed well, and courted well at some point or another.

Her sureness told me so. Her confidence told me so. Everything down to her moisturized skin told me so. Kit was to be held to a higher regard than most women. I didn’t make the rule. She did. Her presence did. I was simply meant to abide by it.

“Thank you.”

Her back was visible far too soon. Although I had nothing more to say, I wasn’t quite ready to watch her walk away.

“And, Kit,” I belted, unable to control my impulses.

She stopped again, turning slowly. “Yes?”

“Let that be the last time you call me by my father’s name. It’s Fohr, sweet baby.”

This time, I took off in the opposite direction. I couldn’t bear the thought of watching her leave, again, so I did so myself.

My teeth crashed into each other as I ground them against one another in an attempt to control my limbs. Kit’s magnetism was far too powerful. I had no desire to fight it, but for her sake, it was best.

(scene break)

Every step I made was announced by the polyester used to construct the shorts I’d selected. I descended the staircase with the clear glass in my hand. It was my second time down them in the last few minutes and I was hoping it was my last for a while. The two-story closet seemed like a perfect idea until you couldn’t recall where your things were stored because you didn’t visit your home enough to remember.

The fight I began the second I left Kit in the hallway with her pretty brown skin on full display was useless. So was the list of tasks that served as a temporary distraction. Getting her out of my head proved to be the more difficult task.

I exited my bedroom, conquered the required square footage to reach the sliding doors that extended from one end of the house to the other, and stepped out into the massive backyard of my home. Even with all the land surrounding me, shrinking me in size, there was an incredibly large presence just feet away from me.

The heated jacuzzi hardened her nipples through the top of her swimsuit. A wine glass rested at the tip of her fingers. Her eyes were trained on me. Centrally.

Down boy. I chastised my growing erection. I’d managed to settle Kit’s soul while in close proximity. The last thing I wanted to do was give her a new reason to run in the opposite direction every time I entered a room she didn’t have to be in for the moment.

I was appreciative of the water’s temperature as I lowered my body into the circular structure. Kit observed with curiosity and concern dancing in those irises of hers. Once inside, I didn’t settle.

The journey to her end of the water began. Her chest swelled with air.

“Am I interrupting your free time?” I asked, closing the gap between us without haste.

I was in no hurry to lose control of my limbs, lips, and listening ears. Because, that’s what would happen if I moved any swifter. Instead, I took my time. Held her gaze. And silently assured her that she had little reason to worry.

“I asked you a question,” I reminded her.

Her head swung from one side to the other. There was nothing between us, now, except two inches of bubbling water that fizzled against our skin. She smelled like honey today.

Different.

It was a pleasant, subtle scent that paired well with her pH. Her chest rose higher. Her eyelashes batted, displaying the perfect natural curl at the center of them. They framed her eyes so well.

I’d reached her and she had still forgotten to breathe. Before I lost her permanently, I tipped her chin upward. Finally in contact with her frame again, I was hit with an electric current that made the hair on my back stand.

She’s exhilarating.

Her boredom was tantalizing. It was exciting. It was so damn cute. And, fitting. And, interesting.

“Breathe, Kit.”

For a woman with a sharp memory, her actions were questionable. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember the most important action known to humankind.

She nodded. “Ye– yes.”

Softly, the words fell from her lips.

“Right.”

Her chest deflated as her tongue exited her mouth to wet her lips.

I could’ve done you that favor.

The way I wanted to care for Kit, on levels I didn’t understand myself, was driving me up the fucking wall. The fact that I was forced to take my time and lean into the idea of having her in my world when this was all over should’ve been doing the same, but it wasn’t.

Strangely, it was giving me the opportunity to carefully craft the demise of her burdens, barriers, and boundaries the actions of another nigga had caused her to adopt. Whether she understood it or not, I’d claimed her as my own and would do anything to have her. Even if not now, someday, and that day would have to be sooner than later.

“Are you comfortable?”

Soundlessly, she nodded. I accepted her response for what it was. The truth.

I stepped closer, not stopping until our bodies touched.

“Still comfortable?”

She nodded.

“Good.”

I placed my glass on the concrete behind her. When I hoisted her up and into my arms, a gasp seeped through her lips. Naturally, her legs wrapped around me, encasing me in her frame.

Right here. I was exactly where I wanted to be. Not for a brief second but for many moons.

“And, now.”

A lustful haze clouded her orbs.

“Yesss,” she mumbled.

“Go on a date with me, Kit.”

“We’re stuck inside,” she stated, leaning into me to hide her flushed cheeks and dewy skin.

I shrugged. “Which will only fuel my creativity. I don’t need excuses, sweet baby. I need answers.”

“I love my job, Fohr–”

My name falling off her lips was icing on the cake. I wanted to push her swimsuit aside and drive my hammer up her walls. But, I remained still. I had a lifetime to fuck her body. For now, I wanted nothing more than to fuck her mind something awful. If done right, I’d have unrestricted access to her well.

“And, admittedly, I love the idea of allowing you to have your way with me, but my head and my heart are both advising me to keep things strictly professional.”

“One of them is lying to you, Kit. You’re in my arms, your legs are around my waist, and your pussy is pressed against my dick– I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but you are not keeping still. You’ve run the length of it twice since you opened your mouth. We’re past professional.”

“I am your maid.” She sighed, closing her eyes.

I placed my lips near her left ear.

“Who was made for love,” I expressed.

When I pulled back, her eyes were on mine, again.

“It seeps through your pores. Your spirit has been beckoning for me since I saw her. You’re a woman that doesn’t deserve lonesomeness, even as a form of protection. You deserve to be pampered, cared for, and loved like there’s no tomorrow. Kit, I have a feeling I can be the guy that gives that to you. And, without a doubt, I understand what it is you can give me.”

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I am Grey Huffington, Black Romance writer, emphasizing the slowness, softness, and stillness Black women desire and deserve. If you love the story you’re reading, I have a full catalog of books just like it. You can find them on Amazon or at greyhuffington.com. Sometimes my store is closed so that I can practice self-control when it comes to my artistry. If you bump into that issue, don’t worry. It’ll reopen when my impulsiveness is not so overwhelming.

Suggested Books to Start:

• Long + consuming: Luca

• Serial reading: Luca

• A feel-good novel: Jagged Edges

• An ode to women: Sensitivity

• Short + sweet: Temple

• Straight to the point: As we Learn (followed by As we Love)

• City-Romance: Syx + the City

For a full list of recommendations, visit greyhuffington.com. For the full catalog (in order), visit my Instagram feed.

Strippers are magic. They’re the fairies of womanhood.

They’re silent odes to our bodies. Examples of unrighteously heightened confidence. Spirit animals. Fantasies. Magnetic beings that nearly all the world wants to see/experience at least once in their lifetime. And, they can fly, too (kind of).

I’ve never been fond of convincing, and this article is everything but an attempt to. However, I wanted to share the evidence behind my claim.

So, here’s to the magic of the night.

note: this piece is not for comparison. it’s simply one to help you understand just how magical strippers are. while all women possess magic in my opinion, this is a different kind a magic. a rare magic. and, i want to talk about it, because, though i have my own bit of magic—it’s not that source of magic. that’s what makes them so special.

their confidence

most women can’t stand the idea of passing a mirror. they avoid their reflection at all costs because at some point they stopped being the person they believed themselves to be. while that saddens me, it reminds me of the resilience of dancers. even when the feelings are heavy and the world is too much, their confidence consumes them the second they enter the room full of patrons, prepared to spend their savings on a wild, inexplicable night with people you don’t see often in the real world. with the fairies.

their heads are high.

their shoulders are squared.

their noses are in the air.

their breasts pierce every space they enter.

their hair is laid.

their mind is made up.

their mission is clear.

their core + arm strength

when we speak of athletism, please be sure to involve the midnight ballerinas in the conversation. the ones who can climb to the top of the pole, effortlessly, as if it were running to their mailbox on an early fall evening.

i’ve taken the pole classes. i commend every woman who has decided to make a career of climbing it, because it’s not a simple task. the strength it requires isn’t mentioned enough.

in addition to climbing, they’re focused on moving their bodies, staying on beat, not falling, and putting on an unforgettable performance.

it’s as if it comes natural to them. as if they were meant to be there. as if that’s where they belong. as if that was written in their plan all along—the magic. the strength. the bravery.

their ability to move parts of their bodies that are questionable

i honestly didn’t know all of those parts could move. and so effortlessly. and so beautifully. and so strategically.

their flexibility and ability to move certain muscle groups leave me stunned track after track.

right cheek.

left cheek.

both cheeks.

clap.

thighs and legs.

heels clicking together.

on the knees, both cheeks moving.

the combinations are endless. and so are the possibilities. as i watch them in total control of those big beautiful cheeks behind them, i’m reminded of the wings of fairies. how breathtaking they are. how in control of them fairies manage to be.

their ability to perform all night

the stamina is unmatched. walking around in their fairy booties for 3-8 hours with barely any breaks and a demanding audience… they deserve a reward of some kind. maybe a record in the books.

i’ve heard so many women joke about their troubled area in the bedroom—specifically when riding the horse.

“i’ve got a good twenty seconds in me.”

“ten ups and downs and i’m getting off.”

“don’t even ask me to get on top, because i’m not.”

“i need to get in the gym on leg day.”

“i got up there and embarrassed myself.”

the narratives are endless and hilarious. quite honestly, i imagine a stripper could ride a man into the sunlight and still be on top at sundown. their legs are endless stakes that are not opposed to endless movement for the overall plot.

it’s almost as if they are the impossibles.

did i mention they fly?

if they climb high enough and the drinks are good enough, you wouldn’t be imagining it. it would be happening right before your eyes. i will not be explaining any further.

they are most active and alive at night

when the world is sleeping and unable to experience their powers.

like vampires.

and wolves.

and witches.

and ghosts.

and the rest of the world’s special creatures.

while the world is up, alert, and working… the fairies are sleeping. when night falls, they find their way to their respective posts and make magic.

their contagious spirits

i’d like to call it their fairy dust. they sprinkle it along the club floor, sure to lock everyone in their trance. all of them have it. i imagine it’s in those little pouches they carry around on their wrists.

i’ve never saw a mad man in the strip club. their too focused. too enthralled. too enamored. too consumed to speak much. do much. move much.

nobody’s worried about anything or anyone in the strip club… no one but the dancers they came to see and the money they came to spend.

the strip club nurtures a carefree, judgment-free atmosphere that many more spaces should adopt. the objective is clear. either you’re a fairy or a fan. either you’re paying or picking up the money on the floor. it’s simple and understood.

the sexual nature they exude and encourage

i’ve never left a strip club not ready to tear my man down. women leave the strip clubs with throbbing centers. men leave the strip clubs with rock-hard shafts.

i’m certain women have gotten the best sex of their lives from men who have left the strip club prior to entering their sacred walls.

i’m just as certain men have experienced fellatio in a ridiculous fashion after a night with the strippers from the pretty girl on her knees.

there’s a true, relentless yearning that follows a night in the presence of midnight ballerinas. there’s nothing like it.

the second-hand liberation.

the sex appeal.

the confidence.

the music.

the atmosphere.

the feminine energy.

it’s all so invigorating. so fulfilling. so addictive.

the way they smell & feel (good all night)

i’ve never met a midnight ballerina that didn’t smell like she bathed in silk and rinsed with chamomile. should a dancer ever have a class on feminine hygiene, i will be the first to sign up. not because i need to but because i want to know what they know.

i want to know:

how their pores aren’t overflowing with sweat after hours of performing.

what deodorants are best for their line of work.

if they use dusting powder on their bodies.

their body wash.

their preferred method of cleansing.

how they manage while on their periods.

the lotion

the body oil

all the things, because at the end of the day—we’re all just girls.

their silent yearning that makes you empty your pockets and find an ATM for more bills

there’s no need to explain, but... i want to make it rain like april showers in the presence of dancers. i never feel like i have enough ones (although i have plenty). i never feel like i’m paying enough. throwing enough. yet, they’re still grateful. still grinding. still gyrating. still pretty. still pursuing. still paid. still sprinkling their fairy dust all over me. just happy i visited their part of the world and allowed myself to experience their magic.

To the girls who are ready to liberate their labia and produce a pleasant secretion on that 7.5-inch plow for your garden… here are the secrets to your pxssy’s power.

There’s been a saying for ages amongst the older women when it comes to younger women and the care they take of their vaginas/lives. Though hard to hear, it has served its purpose for years and years, and is still being recited regularly. It’s always accompanied by either a look of disgust or disappointment, because something has gone astray. Be it life, a relationship, a friendship, a situationship, or the hygiene of the woman on the receiving end of this famous phrase.

“You don’t even know how to clean your pxssy yet.”

*winces*

My God, that’s tragic.

As diminishing as it is, it’s sometimes (if not 90% of the time) true. While it is a double-edged sword, meaning you’re not old enough or seasoned enough to have the proper knowledge of whatever the topic at hand is OR you actually don’t know how to properly clean your vagina because you’re practically still a baby, let’s dive into the actual facts that have led us to this entry.

Older women, most of them, possess a cleanliness (down there) that has come from trial and error. They’ve taken bits from their friends and bits from their own experiences to become seasoned in that area.

Literally and figuratively.

While I’m not one of them, I have taken an interest in the cleanliness and vaginal health of women because I’m a female (gasps). I’m a girl who likes glittery things, including my pxssy.

I’d like to say that I’ve learned a few things that help keep my pxssy in great health. Instead of too much trial and too much error on your part, I’d like to share with you what I’ve learned and how I’ve managed to keep a glittery pxssy —inside and out.

ditch the dirty rags

If you wouldn’t put it on your face, it should not go on your vagina. The skin is just as sensitive and easily irritated. Towels hold a disgusting amount of bacteria that should not touch your private areas (or any area, honestly).

Treat your vagina like a fresh breakout. Handle it with care and be cautious of what (and who) has access to it.

Instead, use disposable cloths that are gentle on your skin and don’t hold the bacteria of a 3-day-old wash rag that hangs to dry after showers.

(Hint: Toss your rag after each shower/bath, anyway. You’re just putting dirt back on your body by reusing it.)

gentle exfoliation

We’re hairy creatures. At least most of us are. Pubic hair often results in ingrown hairs. It’s a pain. An unwanted one, but we’ve all experienced it. Some of us more than others.

Those disposable cloths I mentioned a second ago… they serve as gentle exfoliants. The cloths with the deep ridges and grooves will be your good girlfriends. Choose them wisely.

(While I’d love to suggest some with links, I want you to choose what’s best/feels right for your cooch.)

These gentle exfoliants will nudge those stubborn ingrown hairs out of your skin more often than not. It will also uproot those you can’t see or are unaware of. Because those hairs will eventually result in hair bumps (another problem we want to avoid).

the skin care routine

How often do you treat your pussy (we’re all girls here, let’s stop the code spelling for Christ’s sake) to a spa day? Or even a good rub (and I don’t mean your clit).

A good, natural preventative measure to ingrown hairs, hair bumps, chaffing, and darkened private parts is moisturizing.

Every day.

Lotions. Oils. Butters. The good ones.

Just like your face has a skincare routine, your pussy should too. Carve out thirty seconds to care for your cooch.

If you’re in pursuit of the pretty, pristine pussy like the girls at the spa who love the nude pools because their bikini lines were made for it, then do as they do.

Treat your pussy like you love it.

Don’t just shove it into panties after a shower. Cleanse it. Exfoliate it. Tweeze it. Tone it. Moisturize it. Massage it even… if you have time.

softer periods

If you’re a tampon lover, please disregard this one and keep reading. I am not trying to convince you not to do what’s best for your lifestyle/schedules.

There’s something that doesn’t feel quite right about bending down and lodging a stick of (what they say is) cotton up my vagina and keeping it there all day, guarded by my walls as it expands (sometimes to the point of pain) from my blood.

After years of feeling worse and worse about the idea of tampons, ditching them became my pussy’s greatest execution. Because, to be honest, I hardly want anything inside of me but some d—.

For softer periods:

• ditch tampons

• try natural pads + liners

• try (a personal fav) period panties

• try (a personal fav) reusable cloth pads

• try (a personal fav) reusable cloth bed pads (the incredibly large kind that they use at the nursing homes)

Reusable/washable cloth products are so much gentler on the vulva. Periods don’t feel like life-halting events. They just feel… better.

Try it. I’m not sure you’ll ever return to the (supposedly) cotton sticks or plastic cushions we stick to our panties.

Admittedly, Rael is my favorite brand of reusable pads. I swore I wouldn’t name brands in this post, but this is an honorary mention.

study her

Who is your vagina? What’s her name? What does she like? What products don’t agree with her? Is she a sweaty little thing or is she a cooling plant? What cut of panties does she like best? How does she feel near that time of the month? What is her state during ovulation?

Keep a small pussy notepad. Take note of the things she does, loves, hates, and her behaviors. Treat her like the living thing she is. She’s no different than a stomach or brain or limbs or mouth.

Study her. Educate yourself. And, handle her according to your findings.

cotton, bamboo, or silk panties (most days)

More often than not, use cotton (or other natural material like silk). Save the lace panties for the good days and the thin thong for the special occasions.

Cotton is:

• natural

• breathable

• helps maintain your PH balance

• captures/absorbs moisture on those slippery days

The same goes for bamboo

Silk is:

• soft

• breathable

• absorbant

• gentle on your pubic area

Stay away from synthetics as much as you can. They are practically polluting your pussy.

soak sometime

Showers are incredible, but after a shower, sit her in some water every now and again. Water runs over, down, under, etc, her in the shower. Put her in the tub (a clean one, after a shower).

Especially if:

• he hammered you to the bed

• you had on jeans that weren’t the most comfortable

• you’re slightly swollen

• you’re hurting

probiotics

We take vitamins for better health. We eat food to keep from getting sick/starving. We take meds when we have a headache. We—

Basically, we consume to prevent, maintain, or get rid of. Consider probiotics your vaginal medication.

The benefits, you ask? Fine.

Benefits of probiotics:

• reduces vaginal dryness

• maintains your PH balance (or gets it back on track)

• improves fertility

• prevents infections (also treats them)

• reduces odors and unwanted discharge

• keeps your vagina happy (healthy)

• fights bad bacteria, keeps good bacteria safe

• strengthens your immune system

Hopefully, that convinces you to at least look into probiotics. They’re worth a try. Your pussy would be proud of you.

diet

Honestly, the better I eat, the better I smell and feel. Everywhere. There aren’t any frozen foods in my freezer… There are 84 frozen 12-oz juices that I replenish religiously.

(My juicer has seen better days, but who cares?)

Why?

Because a juice a day keeps my pussy in better shape. It’s true. Though I usually have two a day, even one keeps me in good standing.

You want to consume foods rich in probiotics, antioxidants, vitamin C, and omega-3 fatty acids.

Good food for your vagina:

• berries (strawberries, blueberries, etc)

• lemons

• avocados

• cranberries

• kiwis

• pomegranates

• yogurt

• sweet potatoes

• apples

• leafy greens

• dark chocolate

• WATER

• oranges

Keep your pussy in mind when hunger is knocking at your belly.

soap?

mild, if any.

Your pussy is a big girl, and she can clean herself. However, if you want to give her a hand, be gentle. Harsh, fragrant soaps are not for her. Be mindful of all the chemicals inside the soaps you’re using to keep her ‘fresh’.

smell yourself

Know that if you can smell yourself, likely someone else can. Subtle checks to make sure everything is good down there will keep you in the know about your girl downstairs.

Do not be afraid to check yourself. It’s as simple as raising your arm to make sure you haven’t sweated through that layer of deodorant you put on.

front to back

Sit up on that toilet and pull that tissue from the front to the back. Yes, this should be a given, but sometimes you just have to say it.

Don’t clutter your crotch with dirt. Swipe it away by cleaning your front first and carrying it to the back.

post-sex hygiene

Whether it was alone or with a partner, here’s what you should be doing after sex.

• clean yourself (shower, warm towel, or wipe)

• take a pee (prevent UTIs and push out that bacteria)

• clean your toys after EVERY use

• do not reuse condoms

• do not dush

• avoid fragrant soaps, hand soap, etc

• put on breathable panties

• soak (if you’re swollen, sore, etc)

The minutes after sex are crucial to your vaginal health. If you have even a pinch of energy, use it to get your girl together.

Things I’d suggest that don’t need a section of their own:

• keep tweezers (for those pesky hairs)

• ditch the razor + hair removal creams (let’s go laser or wax)

• clean your nails before your playdates

• be selective about who enters your gates

• check your nails before sticking them inside of you to prevent micro-tearing (a layer of protection just in case helps prevent this torture as well)

• do not stick items inside of you that are intended for that purpose

• let her breathe at night sometimes

• wear panties with fabrics that aren’t cotton or silk

• be nice to her

• change your underwear regularly (and often)

• check the color of your discharge often (brown, smelly, or too thick isn’t okay)

whew.

Gosh, this entry could go on for days, but I’ll stop here. I think we’ve covered enough for you to never hear that dreaded phrase. I’m hoping this post sees the light of day. I’ve been considering deleting it for a full 72 hours now.