Archetypes: The Sage.

Finally, we have reached the last Queen Archetype from the Mopop Queen Within exhibition! She is The Sage, and what a wonderful woman to finish with.

 She's the thinker, planner, risk-taker, and philosopher in all of us. She has wisdom, intelligence, and self-reflection and uses these powers to understand the world.

Her biggest fears are being ignored or tricked by others. This can lead to her weakness, which is the seductive lure of never-ending research.

The Sage cares about the environment and wants sustainable fabrics. Her clothing invites inquiry.

 What do you wear to invoke The Sage? What makes you feel wise and able to take risks?

Archetypes: The Enchantress

We are at our second-to-last archetype from the MoPop A Queen Within: Adorned Archetypes exhibition. This one is The Enchantress.

 She's the familiar seductress, vamp, and femme fatale (whose sexuality is defined in terms of her interactions with men) but also a sensualist and enthusiast. Her strengths are passion, wit, spiritual and bodily appeal. She mesmerizes but also can manipulate.

She wears clothes that entice. She is symbolized by her direct and sensual gaze, her loose hair or fabulous wigs, red lips, feathers, teeth, and flowers.

What are your favorite Enchantress outfits? What symbolizes women's sensuality to you?

Archetypes: The Explorer

In my June 26th blog post, I introduced us to the Museum of Pop Culture's Queen Within show. Today, we will explore the second archetype they discuss - the Explorer.

 She is a pioneer, adventurer, and a rebel. She's all over challenges and rejects authority. Her strengths are determination and independence, and her fears are conventionality, inner emptiness and boredom.

In this exhibit, the Explorer woman rebelled against the rigid framework of beauty and consumerism. She wore clothes that paid attention to issues of gender, race, and disability.

She is symbolized by the planets, the moon, the egg, the night, and the turtle.

What do you wear that expresses your inner Explorer? What makes you feel strong and determined?

Archetypes: The Heroine

I've  been talking about the brilliant Queen Within exhibit at MoPop in Seattle. (here)

The third Archetype we visited was The Heroine. She's a warrior and soldier. She's strongly moral and embraces challenges, especially the thrill of the chase. She's a hard worker, especially in her relationships, but can get addicted to emotional drama.

Her greatest fears are weakness, softness, and cowardice. Her tenacity, strength, and mental resolve are symbolized by the chess queen (the most powerful piece on the board), pearls, gloves, rare stones, the spear, the Mantua, and also body parts such as ears, eyes, and hands.

Feed your head! (apologies to Jefferson Airplane): The Thespian

Earlier this month, I went to the Museum of Pop Culture in Seattle, Washington. An amazing exhibit called A Queen Within: Adorned Archetypes completely blew my mind. It is an exhibition organized by Barrett Barrera Projects and curated by MUSEEA. You can see its Pinterest Board here.

I've discussed Archetypes before (see here, here, and here, for starters). Usually for women, our archetypes are tri-fold (Mother, Maiden, Crone), or limited in power (Waif, Seductress, Nurturer). The exhibit showed me new archetypes for my female characters.

I was so thrilled that I'm going to do a several part series on this show! Let's begin.

The first archetype we meet in the show is The Thespian. According to the words in the show, she is "an actress, entertainer, dramatist, or comedian. She loves to amuse others and enjoys the drama of life....Her greatest fear is to be constricted by routine, so she tends to dismiss the mundane aspects of life."

She is symbolized by extravagance and a vivid palette, as well as images of the earth, the labyrinth, the crane, the bear, water, greyhounds, peacocks, pelicans, and the phoenix.

Who do you know has aspects of the Thespian? What clothes do you own that makes you feel extravagant and vivid?

No Guilty Pleasures

This morning, I woke, remembering the feel of an ex-lover’s skin under my lips. It was the thin, warm, tender skin of the crook of his neck. I could hear the sound of his panting and the way he fit between my legs. 

I wanted nothing more than to call him, to beg him to meet me in a lovely hotel for one more rendezvous. 

You know what? It was okay for me to feel this way. I didn’t need to feel guilty because I missed someone I had once (still) cared for deeply. 

One of the myths of a committed relationship is that you can never remember or dream of someone else. Your sexuality now belongs to your partner. 

It doesn’t. You get to have your lawless desires. You get to fantasize and orgasm from thinking of whom ever you want. 

(Need I say that desiring some one does not give you permission to be a jerk to your main squeeze?)

My delicious dream stayed with me. It brought great pleasure to my day to think on such sensuous activity. I had a glide in my stride and a dip in my hip, as Parliament/Funkadelic would say. Instead of beating myself up for my unconscious brain, thinking that perhaps I had inadvertently cheated on My Charming Man in my dreams, I allowed it to be a joy, a delight in the person who had been the focus of my passion. 

I refuse to feel guilty for any of my pleasures. I hope this gives you permission to savor your pleasures, too.  

Kisses, Tony Stark. Even now, you bring me great delight.

What's sexy about men?

As a romance writer and healthy, red-blooded American woman, it is my fate, nay, my DUTY to identify what makes a guy yummy. Not just biological men, but trans men and every other man, too.

Eugene Jaques Bullard, a WWI pilot.

Of course, the whole 6-pack, big guns thing is super tasty, but I want to let men know that they can have a regular guy body and still rock that sex appeal.

1. Pride
Not the deadly sin sort, but the kind that lets another person know that you can overcome adversity and have learned competence. A competent man is a sexy man.

An unidentified Australian WWI soldier

2. Expressive eyes.
I love looking at this photo of this soldier. I see someone who would be willing to tell what he has lived through.





3. Forearms.

 

Yes, I know Jeremy Renner is not a normal sort of guy, but bear (bare! Bare arms! Ha!) with me.

Not every guy has big biceps. But forearms are the Every Man's sexy body part. You don't have to wear tee-shirts, just find a shirt with sleeves and roll those suckers up. It's a good look on *everyone*.



4. Bondage.
 Seriously. Every man looks good in bondage.


Or maybe that's just me....

Nah. 

Playing with the Tarot

*blows dust off of blog* *cough choke*

Sorry it's been so long, everyone. There is something about the winter season that makes me want to hermit up. I decided I might as well roll with it, so this morning, I did a cool Tarot spread.

 My deck is the Visconti-Sforza deck, a 15th century deck, and one that I find the most beautiful.

I'm not a big Tarot chick - I find it a fun way to play with brainstorming, dream up psychological insights, and of course, work on archetypes. 

I found a spread called Create a Vision Statement in Barbara Moore's book, Tarot Spreads.
Super fun!

The spread looks like this: 

2     3

   1

4     5

Position One is who you are, Two is what you do, Three is how you do it, Four is who you do it for, and Five is the benefits to your clients/audience. 

And this is my very cool mission statement!

I discover and bring to life bold stories of adventure and passion for lovers and dreamers so we can create options for a better world. 

 *happy dances*

What is *your* mission statement?

(I drew the Eight of Wands, the Knight of Wands, the King of Wands, Two of Cups, and the Nine of Cups, if you are curious)l

What else have I got in my bag of tricks?

How about a little...

 FOREPLAY

     Can I lose it with you?  We're kissing, hard, your tongue sliding around in my mouth, sucking on my lips.  I'm biting at you, nipping and sucking.  Your mouth is hot and wet, sweet with your spit and desire.  I start moaning and thrusting my hips at you.  You grab my ass and pull me in closer.  I wrap one leg around your hips and keep pumping against your jeans.  I'm losing it ‑ I'm clutching at your hair, biting at your neck and ears.  Will you let me go where I need to go?  Or will you stop me with a "Hey, that hurts."?  I suck your skin into my mouth, harder and harder.  I have to know ‑ will you stay with me, let me ride this heat until I can come?  Or will you chicken out before the sheer force of my need?  Or maybe I'll chicken out before you get where you need to be?  It's obvious this is not going to be some sweet, gentle session of lovemaking ‑ we both want it too much.

     You're biting my shoulder, ripping at my buttons.  We fall against the wall, thumping our bodies hard into each other.  You pull my hair, forcing my head back, not letting me escape your clever sharp mouth.  I feel my lips swell, my pussy growing slick with need.  I rub harder against you.  You bite harder, and grab my breast.  You squeeze, and push, and pinch.  I squeal, and I can feel my clit expand, my hood retracting.  I rip your shirt, and grab your nipples, hard.  I try to bend my head to bite them, but you still are holding my hair.  I groan protestingly, and you grin.  "You want something?" you tease me.  I growl and twist your nipples.

     "Give it up, give it to me," I snarl.

     "No."  You twist us, slamming me up against the wall.  You catch my hands with your one free hand and force them up under my chin.  You work your crotch into my spread legs.  I rub against your erection.  "No," you repeat, "you give it to me.  I'm not losing anything until you do.  I'm going to be here a nice long time." 

 You pull my hair harder, bumping my head into the wall.  I barely feel it.  You're kissing me again, not letting me take over.  I struggle, loving the feeling.  I adore it ‑ I can let go, lose control, take what I need and so can you.  We're feeding off of each other's slipping control.  Forced into taking what I need, instead of using the easy way out ‑ yeah, I've been wanting this for a long, long time.  Your hunger is just as greedy as mine ‑ you want a shivering, responsive partner ‑ not just one going through the motions.

     You bite my neck, hard.  I scream, my voice running up the scale of pleasure and excitement.  I buck my hips against you.  We're dryfucking, faster and faster.  We're moving fast and sloppy now, demanding as much sensation as we can milk out of each other.  I'm struggling to free my hands, wanting to rip your shirt to shreds, to feel your skin and mark you with my nails.  You force me back down. I refuse to relax and let you move me as you would.  You bite my cheek, my jaw.  I snarl again, snapping my jaws at you, trying to bite back.  You still have my hair in a fierce grip ‑ I'm not allowed to reach you.  I finally free a hand and I grab your hair, the long toffee colored strands tangling in my fingers.  I drag your head closer to mine.  Who gets to top?

     "Yeah, come on, give it to me," I whisper.  "I wanna fuck you."

     Your lips peel back from your teeth.  "Maybe I wanna fuck you,"  you hiss.  "Yeah, you're gonna be mine tonight."  

     I freeze and lick my lips.  The idea of you doing that to me delights me.  I shudder and my hidden lips spread wider.  My tongue snakes out, trying to touch yours.  You see my eyes soften and feel my body start to strain towards you instead of away.  You give my hair a yank.  "You gonna give it up that easy?" you growl.  "I thought you were gonna fuck me?"  Your lips curl in a sneer.

     My hand tightens up in your hair.  I yank you away from me.  My lips curl right back.  "I ain't giving anything away ‑ what you want, you're gonna have to take."  

     You grin wickedly.  I grin back.  I know what's in store for me.  

Tell me your favorite kiss!

Halloween, part three

Continued...

He disappeared in the crowd of people. Shaking with shame and humiliation, Sula wiped off his kisses with her fist. Collecting her coat and bag from coat check, she slammed the elevator door shut. Too many people had witnessed her rejection. Thank all above it was Halloween, and no one would recognize her ever again.

Sula snuck to her bedroom without her family seeing her disheveled state. She hid her costume, washed her face and hair, and the next day, disappeared into her regular baggy clothing. Sula tucked the memory of the sexy Captain America deep into her brain where her family’s prying wouldn’t find it. Embarrassment made her cringe whenever she thought of her abandoned behavior at Halloween.

The weeks flew by in their usual blur. One day she woke still twisting with dreams of a finely sculpted mouth, smooth teeth, and a blue, red, and white costume lying in a wrinkled heap next to her bed. She put her feet on the cold, worn linoleum floor of her childhood bedroom. Looking out her window, she stared at the huge piles of rock, gravel, and decorative cement flagstones of her family’s landscape and farm supply business. 

For once she didn’t find them oppressive and desiccating. Instead, they were sturdy and powerful and patient. 

A flood of strength filled her, replacing her usual fear with calm and clarity. This morning, her angry father voice calling up the stairs didn’t make her cringe. She touched the window’s smooth glass as a plan to escape her family’s dominance crystallized in her head. 

During quiet hours alone in the business office, she searched for an apartment. She reworked her resume and emailed it out. Useful items for an independent bachelor girl lurked under her narrow bed. 

Finally, she drilled a hole in the shield, painted it silver, and put it on her charm bracelet where no one would notice it. The passion the errant Captain awakened now kept her keen and alert, ready for her life to begin. She bided her time through Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

Everything fell into place two days before New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow night, she could move into the apartment she wanted. A big shot law office wanted her as their office manager after the New Year. She could watch the ball drop in her own place.

During the night, she packed up the little used Honda she bought and hid the few boxes with blankets. When she came down in the morning, ready for anything, her mother told her the business’s inventory computer system crashed with the fury of an asteroid hitting the earth. 

Knowing it was her last day made her nod calmly. The promise of sweet freedom made anything bearable.

Nothing Sula did could revive the computer, though. Her father, sneering at her failure, demanded she call in a consultant. Flipping through the Yellow Pages, a perverse imp of mischief made her choose an ad with a shield on it.

The consultant came in, practically vibrating with energy and life. He bore a decided resemblance to a young Paul Newman. Sula felt a strange pull in her lower self, the first in many months. He introduced himself as Peter, shaking hands with the members of her family, charming her craggy father, her crumbled mother, and even her brothers, filled with their small cruelties. When he shook her hand, he glanced at her bracelet. “Hmm. And you are?”

“Sula,” she responded, distracted by her trembling thighs. 

“Sula,” he said. “A pretty name.” Her eyes widened at the uncharacteristic flirting and at the memory of Halloween. He was the right height, the right breadth. A thin flame ran under her skin and hardened her nipples. 

 “Well, show me the damage.” He picked up his briefcase.

Sula gestured for him to follow her to the ‘computer room’. The rest of the family left them alone together without a chaperone, unsuspecting of her churning desire. She opened the door to the computer’s room and escorted him inside. 

Peter took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He sat at the console and asked, “So tell me again what happened?” As Sula bent over, she caught a whiff of his subtle, lemon tinged cologne.

He shook his head. “I’m amazed you kept this thing going as long as you did. You must be a miracle worker.” Even though the praise pleased her, she was no longer the sort to roll on her belly for approval. 

“Well, we’re all hoping you are an even bigger magician,” she replied. “How did you get into this kind of consulting?” 

“I liked feeling like Captain America, like I could ride into town and save the day.”

“Oh!” Sula dropped her pencil in shock. She bent down but Peter beat her to it. When she took it, he pulled her closer. 

“Sula,” he breathed, looking at her mouth. “I went back to the party, looking for you, but you had left. How have you been?’

Her heart pounded so hard she gulped for breath. “Fine, thank you. And you?”

“I’ve thought of you. I wish I hadn’t had to run off like Cinderella that night.” 

She straightened, pleasure at his words making her blood run hot. “Did your ride turn into a pumpkin?” 

 “Something like that.” He straightened his tie. “So, ah, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve?”

 “I’m moving into my own apartment.” She inhaled and let go of years of exhortations that only hussies asked a man out. Maybe only hussies got what they wanted. “Would you like to help me christen the place?”

The End. 

Mmm, Captain America helping me christen a new living space. Yummy!

Halloween, Part Two

Continued from previously....

Minutes or years later, she opened her eyes. And spotted Captain America in one corner of the ballroom. He had a shield strapped to his back, a martini with a twist in one hand, and the most luscious mouth she had ever seen. The belt did wonders for his firm thighs and an alluring expanse of blue cloth between. 

Sula rarely indulged her sexual side – the risks of disease and the disapproval of her family kept her firmly in line. But tonight was Halloween. No one knew her. She slid over to the honorable Captain. “Would you like to dance with me?” 

Behind the mask, he looked her up and down, his gaze catching at her breasts and lips. “Why sure, little lady.” 

She grinned, looking him dead level in the eye. She was too tall for girl, but he was just right for man. Caught up in her daring, she led the way out to the floor, but Captain America caught her. 

“Allow me.” He put his hands on her waist and settled her against his thigh. Her breath caught at his boldness. She thought they would merely dance facing each other, not slide against each other’s bodies in imitation intimacy.

George Clinton took them on a trip to Erotic City as the Captain gripped her waist. At his hot clasp, all of her hang-ups disappeared. Her head tipped against his neck and she breathed him through his costume. Nothing smelled like a man.

The hot beat had her tracing the line his muscles made down his arms to his hands then back up. His fingers inched down her hips until he clutched her ass with wide, strong hands. Kneading her, he watched her swallow and lick her lips.

The thin fabric of her lamé pants offered no shield from his assured touch. Sula wanted none. He slid down her body, his breath teasing at her belt. Her untucked shirt offered no protection and his mobile tongue circled her navel. She grasped his shoulders and rippled against him, lost in the sensations. 

Agonizingly slowly, he traveled back up her torso, kissing each and every button. When he reached her cleavage, he rubbed his face against the sides of her breasts, the fabrics of his mask and her shirt setting up a shiver through her. Then he licked a hot wet path from between her breasts to her collarbone. A slight graze of teeth of her neck had her whimpering and her nails dug hard into the chain mail like texture of his costume. 

He leaned in as the beat slowed.

Her eyes flicked down to his curving mouth. 

His lips were warm and dry and firm…and then he traced her lower lip with his tongue. Sula stroked her tongue along his. He pulled her upper lip into his mouth, sucked off all of her lipstick. Sula started. The heat pooling in her belly undid her. She slid his lower lip between her teeth and sucked back. 

He tasted of lemon and gin and a man’s desire. She grabbed his biceps, the feel of the nubbly blue cotton under her palms maddening to her heated senses. She held his face, the mask both safe and irritating to her. Wrapping the long strands of her gel stiffened hair in his broad and powerful hands, he pulled her even closer. 

They abandoned the lip sucking to slide their tongues against each other. He had a man’s tongue, pebbled but silky. Sula had been kissed before and well, too. She’d been to college, after all. But kissing Captain America was an education in just how expressive and sexual a mouth could be. 

The next song started, something faster, sleazier. When her back bumped against the wall, she gasped, surprised he had maneuvered them so smoothly though the growing crowd. 

Pressing her into place, he settled between her legs. She whimpered into his mouth and rocked against the delicious pressure. 

She rode his erection. He would fit perfectly inside her, like he’d been made for her pleasure. Sighing with the delight of that thought, she grabbed his hard ass and yanked him even closer.

The heat in her lower body blinded her with the strength of her need. Her hidden lips swelled deliciously painfully. She pressed hard against him, but the friction wasn’t quite right. Hitching her leg up, she wrapped it around his hip. A low growl answered her motion and he pushed her harder into the wall.

Her head tipped back against the plaster. Gasping, she rolled her head back and forth. Taking advantage of her exposed skin, he spread the collar of her shirt. His teeth nipped at the flesh over her collarbone.  Sula barely bit back a whine in time or she would have let the whole ballroom know exactly what she wanted.

 She stroked her hands down his face, down his neck, exploring his broad, hard shoulders, his firm pecs and hard nipples. She trembled as she reached his waistband, and as she reached to insinuate her fingers between them enough to cup his crotch, his hands caught hers and held them.

She broke away from the kiss, startled and upset. Her wide, glazed eyes met his, enigmatic and hot behind the mask. She pushed her arms against his grip, wanting to start them moving again, wanting to feel his body, his hardness against her. 

“Why not?” she whispered. 

The Captain looked at her smeared makeup,  her body straining towards his. He licked his lips but he held firm.

“I don’t even know your name,” he whispered back. 

“Sula. My name is Sula.” What was one more risk at the thought of not touching him? 

“Sula. Pretty name.” He nuzzled her ear. He still held her hands away from his body. She licked the exposed skin on his face. 

“Please,” she pleaded. 

He loosened his grip. Just as her fingers touched his erection, she felt a cell phone vibrate against her thigh. A quick check of the message window had him swearing. 

“Pretty girl.” He kissed her again hard. “I have to leave.” He wiped away a smudge of her bright red lipstick away from the corner of her mouth. He slid a miniature shield from his belt. Teasing, his hand traced the curve of her breast before dropping the shield into her shirt pocket. “Don’t forget me.”

TO BE CONTINUED....

While I'm stuck on fan fiction...

My homage to my favorite comic book character, Captain America.

Halloween

Part One

by Linda Mercury

Rare, delicious freedom! Sula shimmied her shoulders to the bhangra beat in her headphones. She escaped her family’s choking grasp by claiming a new knitting group and snuck out a Halloween costume in her voluminous bag. One accidentally-on-purpose left behind cell phone and the night was hers. Giggles erupted as she got off the bus at the crowded Portland downtown transit mall. 

At a nearby greasy spoon diner, she disappeared into the bathroom to step into silver platform boots. Wild purple glitter on her eyelids transformed her sweet ‘Daughter of India’ face into the unfamiliar wildness of glam rock. She wandered the streets, laughing with everyone’s high spirits until a playful bass line tickled her ears. 

The pounding led her to a masquerade fundraiser for the Dove Lewis Animal Hospital. She paid her cover and took the ancient elevator to the ballroom. A goth, butterfly, and a zombie all complemented each other on the creaking ride up. The metal gates opened and Sula caught her breath.

Gossamer fabric and twinkling hanging lanterns transformed the space into a 1001 Nights fantasy. She bobbed her head to the funk as she got a Tequila Sunrise.

The ballroom echoed emptily at this early hour of the night, but the DJ, a blonde woman in a wheelchair, had the place thumping with sexualized vibrations. Sula took a deep drink, set down the plastic cup, and claimed a corner of the dance floor. The rhythm loosened her spine. The beat freed her mind, informed her feet. Years of repression boiled out of her.

Part Two, coming soon!
**************************************
Tell me, who is your favorite All American hero?