Peeling mother

During my writing I’ve been peeling the layers of lies and loves my mother displayed to me. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, but this is the first time I’ve put thoughts to paper for the purpose of possible publication.

Being mature in age, and having very few past acquaintances alive today, makes writing my book easier. I certainly wouldn’t have contemplated writing it were my husband still beside me or many of my ‘boys’ still alive.

However, I’m considering dulling the knife before publication and will mark for my editor the bits and pieces perhaps best left on the cutting floor.

My mother was a skinless, boneless, peahen who’d display her plumage when angry at me or jealous of other women. She was also an elitist; a Wallace, whose family for several generations had either written the laws or paid to have them written.

Which made me an elitist like my mother; a disdainer of rules set to keep the others in line.

The conundrum was I insisted upon my boys obeying my rules, which sometimes offended ‘official’ rules of society, and, boys being boys, the only way to keep them in line was sex. Like someone once said, it’s an easy job if you can get it.

Sex was the third layer of my mother. You’d have to peel the projections of purity and properness before tasting my real mother.

I got to see my mother ‘tasting’ very early on in my life. I’ll add that to my book and leave it to the editor to keep or not.



What I have discovered while writing my stories is that I must have come across from time to time in some of my business and personal relationships as a conniving, man-eating, black-widow spider. Which is simply not the case.

In those instances I can only say that the male acquaintance/client in question was simply stupid, and left me no option but to dismiss him from my group. I offer him hand-peeled grapes and he gives me whine and jealousy. The fool.

Writing is therapeutic.

The Tarot reader

I’m writing erotic bits and pieces in Scrivener about some of boys in my life when I suddenly thought of the time a friend and I visited a Tarot card reader.

This was in the 1960’s, the time of ‘free love’, and one of my current boyfriends took me to a Tarot card reader. He was expecting her to say how much I loved him. I know this because I asked him why we were going there.

The Tarot card reader, rotund and smelly, sat at dimly lit table at the back of a restaurant in New Westminster. We sat down and my friend said he’d like to know her (meaning me) future. I told him I could speak for myself, and asked the old woman to tell me if my love life included him. She asked for the $5.00 and my friend paid her.

She passed me the cards and asked me to shuffle them, which I did. She then created a pattern on the table of the top cards. She looked at them a while, then looked up at me and said “You hate men.”

My friend and I made fun of her decision and left. Now, many years later as I reflect upon my life and write about it, I know she hit the nail on the head. I loved men, but I hated them at the same time. Love and hate, what strong passions they are.