The Scorpion And The Frog

My ability to write a story through is about as deficient in the span of my attention as my eye for one man. But, in my attempt to give you all of me, I will continue to continue… Note that the order in which my stories are published is not necessarily the order in which they are lived, and while the people are real to me, the characters should read as fiction for you as they are painted by my perception. My story is mine alone.

From my journal, a day in February, 2014:

Do you know the fable of The Scorpion And The Frog?

The frog agrees to carry the scorpion across the river and the scorpion promises not to sting the frog. Halfway across, the scorpion breaks his promise. The drowning frog asks the scorpion, “why?”

“Because I’m a scorpion. It’s my nature to sting.”

Sometimes I want so badly to see the beauty in someone that I neglect to see all that they show me. Such was the case with The Mayor in March of last year. And while I have now observed him for months, fully aware of “his nature to sting,” I wouldn’t be honest if I said he didn’t continue to have a mysterious hold on me. The Mayor was the first man on my journey for whom I fell and by whom my heart was quickly broken. The first man for whom I changed my traditional signature. The first man for whom I wrote, “Together in Love.”

Just the other day, I got stung by a scorpion hiding in my shoe.

I felt nothing but the fear of a pain that wouldn’t come. I waited to feel the much anticipated weakness in my spine, the numbness in my tongue, to be paralyzed. But, it was just the prick of a needle on my toe, and then… nothing. As it turns, I am not as allergic to scorpion venom as I am to the sting of a man.

Accept people for who they are.

Don’t go to bed with scorpions.

Together in Love!

xob

A Comedy Of Errors

The way pizza night unfolded was brilliant. Like a comedy of errors, the Universe put on a play last night! First, I met my Goddess sister. I’ll call her Conscious. She recognized me as her Soul Sister, and introduced me to her Guide, of whom she referred as her “parting gift” to me as in recent days, Conscious has met her partner, fallen deeply in love, and will be setting off by sailboat to circle the world.

“I must introduce you to Bianca,” Conscious began, “our Spirit Sister on the verge of un-Earthing her full Goddess self.”

“Well, however did you know?” With a wink, and a smile (she can SEE me), I’ll play.

I’ve known Conscious for some time as she teaches yoga at the hotel (I’ve made my office) near my home in Nicaragua, and while I could never bring myself to remember her name, I was always so happy to see her smiling face as her hugs had a way of penetrating my being. There are some people for whom hugs are a meeting of body and soul. Maybe you have felt this? Maybe you, too, will have this pleasure one day… Certainly, that is my hope for you.

So connected am I with Conscious, that the same woman intent on causing me pain has been after her too. Remember the Bully? The “Other“? The blond Malificent, a fugitive of her former life in Canada, a bandita, a fraud, a childnapper, an energy sucker, formerly my neighbor though never my friend in El Camino del Sol, who made the destruction of my life her life’s ambition? With relentless pursuit, she had been after my Sister Conscious too.

So, why am I bullied when I have only love to give? Easy. “You’re a B.I.T.C.H: BEAUTIFUL. INTELLIGENT. TALENTED. CHARMING, and HOT.” Conscious explained. The more she spoke, the more I learned. The I learned, the more I yearned. The more she shared, the more I saw myself in her. She SEES me. I see Conscious. Time and again, a tear would form and fall. Living on the edge of a world you were born into, no longer from there but not yet where you’re going, can be a lonely experience. FEAR NOT. “Keep going…” Conscious directed, almost in warning. “Keep moving…” along your path. “Keep WORKING.” Of course, “work” is different than it used to be. Employed now by Her (not Conscious, but HER: The Universe, my Mother, my Father, my God), I am taken care of. I want and need for nothing as The Universe provides for me. TRUST. I no longer need money.

…Women will be envious of your position, and men will be threatened by your power. Then there are the Unknowing who simply will not understand you. Because people fear what they do not understand, the Unknowing, in their attempt to define you will try to confine you. It can be lonely living differently. Tonight I will be your student, Conscious teach me. “Adrienne was once where you stand: young, beautiful, and on the cusp of enlightenment. But she didn’t make it through, so she’s envious of you. She sees your power and the greatness ahead of you. But she was left behind.”*

SHE DIDN’T MAKE IT. These words hit me hard, sending a quiver of what I can only describe as Fear through me… What if I don’t make it? Of my place, I am fully aware that I. Am. Not. Quite… There. But, of where I am going, I can see there is no place better for me. PARADIS.

FEAR NOT. KEEP GOING. As my entire existence here in Nicaragua is the realization of a manifestation. I must continue to believe.

This past week, I met Em. A traveler staying at Mango Rosa. A passer-through. A girl intent on fighting me. And not just me, but everyone. My first interaction with her, also at Pizza (I must either stop going to pizza, or keep going to pizza) she bitched me out for no good reason. I was crowding her space, she said. While I should have felt sorry that my presence was too much for her to bear, I allowed her instead to get to me. Admittedly, I still have “work” to do. Em was a BITCH too, Conscious verified, but in an elementary stage. Em is fighting hurt. It’s true, she was so angry. I wasn’t enlightened enough to see past her approach. She was mean. But I was sensitive enough to feel her. I mirrored her pain. She angered me. Until last night, I couldn’t understand why I felt so disturbed. I am not angry. It’s only recently that I have started channeling. This gift can still confuse me.

As if meeting my soul sisters wasn’t enough, the play that night was only just beginning to unfold. Do remember the man whose Spirit Preceded Him and the beautiful surfista chica with cascading, sun-bleached waves who captured and stole his attention one year ago at Revolucion? Well A is now my friend, and the Mayor is just another lost soul, I now recognize as not fully connected. For months I wondered how, if I truly hold the capacity to see inside of you, that it could be possible to have been so mislead by him. Now, I know that what I saw some time ago really was his spirit. And both the beauty of his light as well as my recollection of it were true: His Spirit “PRECEDED” Him. Literally, his Spirit walks with him, but not IN him. The Mayor has not committed to his guide. He’s not connected.

*NOTE: this quote was later revised with “yet.” She hasn’t made it through YET.

Sex Is Love

Over two decades ago, in the year 1990, Salt-N-Pepa said, “Let’s talk about sex.” So, why did the conversation die?

A few days ago, I posted a provocative photograph with a question about sex and why it remains that in our progressive age this act which so connects us seems also to be the one thing from which people shy most in conversation.

From my Instagram @BiancaSultana:

Following this photo post, as has followed similar photographs, questions or controversies I’ve raised on the subject, I inevitably receive: A) little attention from my female peers as if my question somehow ostracizes the very community to whom I speak most frequently, and B) unintelligible and unimaginative messages from men, frequently from my past expressing the desire to”re-connect” with me. As if I cannot see through their inauthenticity. One message asking simply, “are you horny?” The idiocy of this one really got to me! No, I’m not horny, I’m pensive. I’m WRITING about sex. I’m questioning, exploring and learning about how I FEEL about sex. Trust, if I were horny, I’d be busy.

A traveler who I met on his brief visit to Nicaragua, upon returning to his country and provoked by my last post, said he wished we’d had more time together, suggesting, “we would have had fun!” As if expressing that I enjoy myself sexually meant I’d enjoy myself with anyone, him especially. When I told him that I only have sex with people I love, he was left perplexed and the conversation died there.

So what is SEX?

At thirty-three and fully content in both my desires and their fulfillment, this is what I have learned:

Sex is the meeting of the souls. A comprehensive yet hardly comprehensible, physical expression of the connection that already exists between all of us. A tactile means of satisfying a spiritual bond. Sex cannot exist without LOVE.

From the words of Paulo Coelho in his novel Eleven Minutes:
“Sex is a manifestation of a spiritual energy called love.”

In our society, we teach our youth to fear sex in order to control it, when what we should be preaching is the value in selection. Without love, sex is a mechanical penetration: boring, dull and simply not worth the energy. With love, SEX IS MAGIC.

Together in Love!
xob

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Hace más de dos décadas, en el año 1990, dijo Salt-N-Pepa, “Hablemos de sexo”. Así que, ¿por qué murió la conversación?

Hace unos días, me envió una fotografía provocativa con una pregunta sobre #SEX y por qué lo cierto es que en nuestra época progresiva este acto que tanto nos conecta también parece ser la única cosa de la que las personas evitan la mayor parte en la conversación.

Siguiendo ese puesto foto, como ha seguido similares fotografías, preguntas o controversias he criado en el tema, me inevitablemente recibo: A) poca atención de mis compañeras como si mi pregunta les ofendió de alguna manera la misma comunidad a la que yo hablo con mayor frecuencia, y B) mensajes ininteligibles y sin imaginación de los hombres, con frecuencia de mi pasado que expresa el deseo de “volver a conectar” conmigo. Como si yo no puedo ver a través de su falta de autenticidad. Un mensaje pidiendo simplemente, “¿estás caliente?” La idiotez de éste realmente me! No, yo no estoy caliente, estoy pensativo. Estoy escribiendo sobre el sexo. Yo estoy cuestionando, explorar y aprender sobre cómo me siento sobre el sexo. Confianza, si yo fuera cachonda, estaría ocupado.

Un viajero que conocí en su breve visita a Nicaragua, al regresar a su país y provocado por mi último mensaje, dijo que ojalá hubiéramos tenido más tiempo juntos, lo que sugiere, “habríamos tenido divertido!” Como si la expresión que me gusta a mí mismo significado sexual que me divierto mucho con nadie, él especialmente. Cuando le dije que yo sólo tengo sexo con gente que quiero, que se quedó perplejo y la conversación murió allí.

Entonces, ¿qué es el sexo?

A los treinta y tres años y totalmente contenido en ambos mis deseos y su cumplimiento, esto es lo que he aprendido:

El sexo es la reunión de las almas. Una expresión completa ya la vez difícilmente comprensible, físico de la conexión que ya existe entre todos nosotros. A táctil significa satisfacer un vínculo espiritual. El sexo no puede existir sin el AMOR.

De las palabras de Paulo Coelho en su novela Once Minutos:
“El sexo es una manifestación de una energía espiritual llamada amor.”

En nuestra sociedad, enseñamos a nuestros jóvenes a temer el sexo con el fin de controlarlo, cuando lo que deberíamos estar predicando es el valor en la selección. Sin amor, el sexo es una penetración mecánica: aburrido, aburrido y simplemente no vale la pena la energía. Con amor, SEXO ES MAGIA.

Juntos en el amor!
xob

http://www.BODYbybianca.com

The Boxer And The Hippie

My sights were set on the Brewer when I met the Boxer and the Hippie. For that reason, I paid them fairly little mind that Friday night at Muchies Bluues.

The Boxer spoke with me first. His interest apparent, he was unquestionably good looking. But, the Brewer’s presence proved too strong a distraction from the chiseled shoulders and masculine jawline of the Boxer to the left of me.

Still, I’ll play… “From where are you traveling?”

“Norway.”

I have become reliant on this question as a means of deciphering those passing through from the few here to stay.

“And, where are you boys staying?” I motioned to his friends.

“His place over Majagual,” he motions to the Hippie.

As if instinctually (he lives here…), my attention was averted.

“You live here?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied the Hippie.

“Me too!”

To my response, likewise glued his attention. A single girl, who also lives here? I felt the immediate pull of his affection.

I read truth in his intentions. And while lacking the muscularity of the Boxer, the strength of the light beyond his eyes proved powerful enough to not only catch but to hold my attention. He was beautiful. For the moment, the Brewer was forgotten. A moment as brief as my flirtatious eye would permit, but productive, as I had had garnered both an invitation and directions to his hilltop hacienda. My attention redirected.

“When heading into town from your casa, take a sharp left and follow the dirt road through a series of ups, downs and round-abouts until you reach a paved ascent. At the highest point, and when the pavers end, take a right. There will be a sign with the Spanish translation for ‘Morning Light.'” Ooh… Adventura!

The next morning was spent following up on emails, solidifying pending guest reservations for my healthy home, selfie-ing and posting on social media: You CAN change your life. You CAN live Everyday Better. YOU CAN DO IT! #BODYbybianca

Then, past noon, I strapped on my hiking boots, leashed Bear and followed by a golden retriever named Bambu, we headed for adventure.

It was a hot afternoon, but the promise of a pool and a cold beverage upon arrival was enough motivation. To Morning Light…

We found the house deserted. So, continued toward the playa where he promised he would be with his puppy in tow. It was on the beach where our day turned night was intercepted as we arrived just before sunset to find the Boxer and his eight-pack sitting on the rocks overlooking the tide.

Damn! He was good looking…

TBC. xob

I Like You. But I Like Him Too.

You haven’t chose me. We’re not married. But, you see me with another man and you want to lay claim over me? Why must you possess me and not enjoy me in the time we share together. The time I gift you. Because, you see….

I like you.

But, I like him too.

I have said it many times, there is a position open in my life for ONE Man. I thrive in a relationship. It is natural for me to care for you thoroughly. To feed you, caress you, take care of you, are all the things I love to do. But, I am single and in the past, my MO is to get into monogamous relationships with the first boy that doesn’t mind when I stick around longer than a night or two. These relationships all seem to last two years, which leaves me two years older. So, now, I am the picker and I won’t settle for comfort when that which I seek is love that is true.

I have loved, but I don’t know whether I have ever been in love. To be in love, I believe, is a two-way street and there has not been a man in my life that has loved me in the same capacity that I have shown.

Recently, the way in which I love has changed. I have learned that to love is to appreciate and not to possess. There was a time I strangled love to death. Fear of love lost drove me toward possession. But, people are not possessions and love is the antithesis of fear. My love is free because I love freely.

“A rose possessed will always die.”

Together in Love!
xob

25

Me: “How old are you?”

Muscles: “I’ll be 26 soon.”

“So, 25?”

“Yeah.”

I chuckle. Of course…

They always are. Or close. And for some reason every man-child in San Juan is a surfer or rides BMX or both and I don’t mind. Lines between their shoulders and their tris… Something to hold onto on their bikes from behind. Oh, you sport the brand of your tag crew? Aren’t you sweet. A tattoo of your Norwegian underground rap troop? Lovely. New ink? Show me!

 

Clearly, what I want has changed. The shift happened at thirty. Now, I wouldn’t say I am a cougar… Yet. But, I am definitely headed in that direction. For now, in the words of my friend Vince, I’m really just “a little girl in a woman’s body.” At 23, my spirit-child is closer to 25 then 33. Twenty-five year olds just seem to be the age of the men who approach me. A few years ago, I may have scoffed at a man so young, now, I appreciate him. Thoroughly.

I used to like suits. Two-piece, three, Double-Windsored and bow-tied. There was a time, in New York, when nothing seemed more attractive than a man in tailored threads. The Fashionista and The Finance guy… Equally glamorous and well-healed was I, we “worked.” Now, a Jungle Child, I prefer my boys like my dog, wild.

I hear you work in an office…at a desk…crunching numbers: yawn-fest. “You…’work’?” The word alone has become a turnoff. Don’t get me wrong, broke without goals is not a turn-on. But, when you do what you love, what you “do” isn’t “work”, and if you never make a dime but you live everyday as the best day of your life, won’t you be mine? Now, he’s young, talented and in passion’s pursuit… Chiseled and sun-kissed. My dating pool is now one-hundred times hotter than it ever was. Sometimes, I feel for my girlfriends in the dark in New York. It’s not fair. So, I share…because I care. Would you come here? Change your life… Care to stroke your fingers through long hair?

Together in Love… From my Home in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua!

xob

Now And Forever

Hello? Are you there?

Sometimes I get sad that I haven’t met the man I am supposed to marry. I don’t want to bike, swim, hike, run alone. I want to fall in love with my best friend, a man who will appreciate the finer things in life: a sandy bum, a perfect swell, the smell of salt water and sunscreen, the way the heart dances between your throat and your stomach on a mountain bike trail, bike dancing on a Friday night… I don’t need money, I don’t crave things. Designer handbags no longer speak me. I prefer a truck to Lamborghini, and a date under shooting stars then to a Five Star. I have traveled all over the world, backpacking on my budget and jet setting on his, I know which way is better. I want good love and good love making, good food, good health…

And good friends! I have been in South Florida exactly two years and I haven’t found them yet. Tonight I overheard a girl say, “look for the bar with the fanciest cars out front, because that is where the nicest people will be” and, “he’s a nice guy, he’ll buy you jewelry.” But jewelry doesn’t fool me. I am living surrounded by stuff, things, materialism… I am drowning in this noise!

In New York, it was all about money, how much you have and making more. There’s no end to how much you “need,” no amount is ever enough. New Yorkers live on a hamster wheel that never lets up, working, churning for two weeks of vacation a year, ten-fourteen days of freedom, of peace, striving for a “future” that never comes because greed is a hole that can never be filled. But, in South Florida, it’s all about appearances. “Looking” good or “looking” rich – he drives a Ferrari, but he also sleeps in it! She’s beautiful, a surgeon sculpted her. INauthentic would best describe these people, this place.

From NYC fashionista to fitness model to country girl to jungle child. I long for the rip tide ride of Maderas and to be high on the clouds from the mountains above Allejuela.

Happiness is

Cigarettes And Whiskey

He kissed my neck but not my lips. Strong hands, with a light touch, he caressed my back and my shoulders. With full awareness, I felt all as, over my clothing, he navigated my body, settling on the shelf between my hip and my thigh. He liked this spot on a woman, he confessed. He took hold of me here.

There were moments I wondered would he kiss me? Though I knew he would not. Of this knowledge grew my trust. A few times I allowed my curiosity to wander toward what it might be like. Cigarettes and whiskey? (Though he’s not a drinker) I was glad he didn’t try. I didn’t want him to. And never did his hand greedily grab hold of mine, never did he ask me to touch him.

Because he didn’t lead with sex, I felt comfortable around him. Not once did I feel he wanted more than I wanted to give him. Respect lead to trust and trust lead to intimacy. Intimately, he cuddled me. Each night, eagerly, I layed my head on the pillow between his shoulder and his breast, combed my fingers through the hair on his chest, then turned from him to push myself into him, closing the gap between my hips and his. One Body. We fit.

Here is where he would kiss me. As you would kiss a child, he kissed my back and traced the line down my shoulder. Because he kissed me like a child, my child came to play with him. I held his hand in the sand.

xob

Assassinate My Heart

I met him on Facebook. A friend of a friend of a friend, The Deejay from Tamarindo, a lover, an anomaly.

Day One. Not physically, nor mentally, to him was I attracted. Vastly contradictory, Day One, he was repellent to me. Hence, my humor when he disclosed of his intention to have me fall for him in love. In our first conversation he made me very uncomfortable. His field force-fully pushed out negativity. I am sensitive, I am gullible, I am soul full, I feed off the energy abounding me. You scared me, the dark power you had over me. I shut that door immediately. Of this, you knew, yourself confirmed; you felt me too. Now, looking back, conveniently, is this when you changed your strategy?

Insightfully, I hold the capacity to to see inwardly inside of me. Invite me, and in sight fully, but out of view, I have the ability to see inside of you. Distinctively, instinctively, I now see the greater world outside of me. It is with this ability I fell inside Day Three. But, was Three you? Or you reflecting me, to make good on some sick prophesy?

Day Two. An observer. You took note of me. I noticed you, noticing me.

Day Three. A flood of vulnerability, his tears tore right into me. Your eyes, now open wide and ocean blue, they invited me, I dived in eagerly. Now, tell me Three, were you You? Or were you Me?

Four days you were Day Three. A lover, a nurturer, Day Three was open and kind. Far from One and unlike Two, Three, you were, surprisingly, a LOT like me.

One. Two. Three. A tangled multidentity. Who, in hell, is he?

“Hey, Mister Deejay,” you played me. Quite literally…

You. Played. Me.

From this Cloud Forest in the sky, I see more clearly than had previously…

Three was Me.

Versed, you confessed, in trickery. The one honest tale you told to me.

A pawn in his-story, I fell just like in his prophesy. Magnetic was the K.I.S.S. that Sealed this deal. We moved tantrically, one BODY; So connected were we spiritually. I came with Me.

xob

——–

If any harm shall come to me, all the world, I summon, look to thee.

The Pawn Of Hearts

Want to know about “intentions behind intentions?”

Only once and recently, have I heard of such a thing. Said by a man about a woman who preceded me. (It seemed, to me, an awfully strenuous practice to think not once, but two times back in history, in search of negativity. I, choose to see good. I like the world better that way.)

Same man, different conversation: he disclosed, and I quote, his “plan,” preconceived to my arrival, to “make [me] fall in love with [him].” I thought, ‘that’s cute…’ But, ‘no shot, man!’ All he’d known of me was my picture, I questioned him. But he had read (or, maybe, researched) my writing; my writing is me, I believed in him.

Not with intention, nor expectation, but with full heart, I walked through his gate. Never broken, however, wounded heart, in my hand, I carried out.

What a fucking pawn I am! Because he did exactly what he INTENDED to do (WHAT HE TOLD ME HE’D DO), and unbeknownst to me, I did too.

And today, he posted this:

To which I responded in comment:

Moments later, the post was removed.

“Om. Shanti. Shanti. Om.”
Together in Love,
xob