Confession of a Quean

Black and white image of womxn lying on a bed in dark under garments. Her face is blurred.
Image from Pexels

When the Universe tells me something, I tend to listen. After the life altering evening with the Portuguese stripper, I spent the rest of my time in her country acting as normal as I could. Our friend left before us due to work, so I had a few days alone with James. It wasn’t until our return flight to France that the reality of the situation struck, and the confession came pouring out…

First, you must know I’m a wimp. In cars. In buses. In trains. In planes.

I’ve been like this since I can remember. Motion-sickness. The worst of all evils. I recall leaving vomit trails on nearly every family trip, not to mention on my scenic adventure through France in 2015. James was convinced I was leaving plots of my own DNA for people to find me in case he turned out to be a serial killer (we’d only been together for two months at that point, so, you never know, right?!).

Why am I telling you these ridiculous details?

Because every time I fly, I take two pills to knock myself out. And, until the day I left Portugal, they never failed me.

Flight of Fantasies

Boarding the plane, I still felt high from all that had happened. As I approached my seat, I noticed the brunette flight attendant standing at the opposite end of the aircraft. She was greeting guests with a smile. Not just any smile, but one of genuine attention. Her hair was tied back, the shape of her eyes defined by subtle, black eyeliner; her curved lips blushed with crimson flavor. I stood there in awe of myself, in awe of her, before realizing I was holding people up. When James and I sat, he put his head against the window to fall asleep. I leaned in close to him, still believing I’d too get some shut-eye. It was hopeless. I spent the entire flight fantasizing about James doing to her all the things he does to me.

My brain couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop! She’d set off mental fireworks of graphic, sexual imagery. My skin tingled. My limbs quivered. My heart pounded. My mind raced.

​What was happening to me?

When James and I landed in Nantes, France, we had a few hours to kill before our friend came to collect us. We found a cozy table in the corner of a small restaurant. James was smiling. I was quiet. I told him I hadn’t slept on the plane. He summed up my silence to that of fatigue and motion sickness. He didn’t push. Sitting there he recalled the colorful memories of the trip, while I did my best not to implode. If you know anything about me, there is only one way to rid myself of my demons: write them out of me.

So, in this little French restaurant with the love of my life across from me, I released myself onto the page. You can find the piece of writing at the end of this article…

Revealing My Demons

When I write impulsively in front of him, James struggles with an engulfing curiosity. So, when I pushed the finished product across the table, he displayed a sense of excitement. I watched his eyes as he consumed the words: a glint of intrigue, a hint of confusion.

He wanted to ask, “Where is this coming from?” Instead, he breathed, “Wow.”

“There’s something I need to tell you.” I muttered.

It seemed irrational to spill my secret, for I had discovered it a mere few hours ago. Although the Portuguese stripper oxygenated my fire, I was still deciphering what was burning in the first place. What am I?  became a real, and daunting question. Once I was revealed, could I ever go back? What happens after? What would our relationship become? How would James look upon me? With more desire or more fear?

It seemed irrational, but I trusted my instinct. The anxiety bubbled to the surface, I felt tears in my eyes, my hands were shaking. Reaching his gaze, unfamiliarity washed through me. I was looking into the eyes of a stranger from the body of one. There was sudden distance between us. I was terrified that my words would birth its permanence. But the fire was blazing hot, and too powerful to contain. In that moment I made the decision to trust him, the way he always asked me to. I looked at him. I let it go and I said:

“I want to watch you fuck another woman.”

Until next time,

Fuck well, friends!

Quean Mo xx


So, tell me, have you ever had a life changing conversation? How did you feel before? After? Comment below or contact me here.


Phoenix & the Savior

Nantes, France 2017

The only details that matter about the night we met are that he was dressed in black and holding a whiskey neat. I could smell disaster from across the room. When he kissed me, I felt the fire under his skin. The animal on his breath. The rapture in his chest. He didn’t like to be touched, he liked to touch. I liked to be hurt. He liked this better.

It took a month for him to fall for me. It took less for me to worship him. When a man can spend his day loving you, then let it fall to his feet like a dirty robe once your legs are spread, you’ve found the key to an alternate universe.

In the beginning there were more bruises and dirty words. As time went on everything became louder, deeper, more intense. Every touch, a shot of heroin.

I do not shame the addicts.

That jet-fuel rush is unfathomable.

I understand the allure.

The first time we made love, I laid on my back.

Ankles bound together.

Legs straight in the air, suspended from a rope.

My hands secured to bed posts.

Blindfolded.

Mouth free.

He stretched moments into hours.

Grazing with his fingers, his lips, his tongue.

It was the first time I feared my own body.

My flesh crawled.

My limbs trembled and ached.

My mouth released sounds that were not my own.

My eyes filled with tears, and my skin burned as they fell.

The bed was no longer against me.

I was floating.

I was somewhere on the ceiling, receiving the pure oxygen that existed there. I didn’t know if I’d evaporate or turn to dust, only to be swept away by him. He fucked me so well, I thought I’d disappear with the passing time.

Piece by piece.

What a beautiful death that would have been.

But the orgasm came to save me.

It twisted and convulsed, ripping its way out.

I was a monster.

I was unaware of her. A resident in some deep, untouched place.

The second she was released, life ended as I knew it. All of me died. I did fall into dust beneath him, only to be awoken into a greater existence. I am the phoenix. I am life and sex and the Universe itself. Everything revolves around me. I can feel it when he’s there, touching me. I can feel it, and therefore it must be…

I could not keep this for myself. I couldn’t. Nor did I want to. I had to experience this on a different level. Feel that sixth sense.

I needed to watch him with another woman, see her turn to dust, too.

I am the phoenix.

I am the devil.

Because I love watching the animal being released.

Not his.

Theirs.

Seeing their beasts run freely.

The untamed inhaling for the first time.

It’s rabid fierceness.

They are all different, and I breathe them in.

Their colors.

Their sounds.

The Universe craves our wild.

That’s what keeps Her strong.

So, I feed the Universe.

He is our savior.

Q.

One thought on “Confession of a Quean

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s