My Secret Sexuality

My Secret Sexuality

I drew this on the 1R ACTransit but, going up North on International Blvd, to Berkeley City College. This is from my pink moleskine sketchbook. Moleskine blank books are the BEST. I prefer the unlined kind! They all come with bookmarks, a stretch band to hold it closed, AND yes, a durable paper pocked in the back to hold stuff like, say, lover’s phone numbers or postal stamps or tiny scraps of paper with random sloppy notes jotted down in a big hurry for those rare occasions when you don’t have a SCRAP of paper on you…. yeah, I know! I know! 🙂


My Temple

LoversInColors  My sacred Tantra Temple is one big room, with walls made of carved and polished dark wood, with holes in it.  They can be slid around and removed. There are heavy purple velvet curtains to keep out stiff winds and cold air.  A large futon lays on the floor, covered in silk sheets and pima cotton blankets plus an assortment of soft, colorful pillows.  There’s a treasure chest of sex toys beside that bed.  Erotic art is on the walls. The altar has a huge crystal, a Buddha, a painting of Krishna and Radha, and fresh-cut flowers plus a bowl of pure water.  And other sacred objects. The food basket contains delicious,  fresh sensual foods to fit the lovers’ tastes.  And also water and other pleasing drinks.  Non-alcoholic! And now, sweet lover, come to me!  I know you exist.  I can feel you “out there”.  I know you are male.  VERY male!  Man of 1,000 Faces!  Let our kisses sear each other’s skin.  Let us melt bodies and minds together.  Let us knit limbs and energies.  I gaze into your lusty, loving eyes!  Your Carvin guitar gleams in the corner, holding hands with my black Fender Stratocaster.  Our amplifiers exchange lusty, meaningful glances!  Your guitar dominates mine with love… and amplifier-to-guitar cords!  (Chords!)  We melt together in musical bliss!

A Love Letter to Women

I’m one of your tribe

I have deeper desires

My eyes explore the soft shadows between your breasts and thighs

 My dreams dance among the Goddesses and dakinis 

 I feel the song, the ssong of your skin and sighs 

How do I, a virgin to women,  kiss you until your toes curl all the way to the moon?

How do I let your husband or boyfriend watch as I sip from your holy grail

Giving the most toe-curling demo EVER of two red snakes dancing!?

The melding of skins id different when there’s an observer present! 

nature’s oldest ritual, the dance of sighs, Kama and Shakti blending tongues and legs and breaths…

The world is recreated whenever we weave arms and legs and destinies 

Breasts like mangoes, thighs like sighs

I hope this poem slides like a welcome hand in your pants!

I want your lips red and moist to receive my kiss

My earthy desires kiss your sky like nipples and tongues with clouds

My pen strokes your paper, scratching out inky kisses and Haiku orgasms

Your breath rides my nipples

My kisses crawl your thighs;  I am Cosmic Hip MaMa!

Hello,  Kitty!  Minds blend more than bodies!

I am the erotic music in your soul.  I am the Lover! So be the dream!  So be the Rainbow Bridge!


My Swan Song

Let me not leave the world 

Without having blessed it

With my bundle of stories

Let everyone be blessed by Linda’s infinite love and light

 Let angels fly out of my thighs like kisses

 May my genes make music

That rolls like the Morocco rollercoaster in Marrakech!

My sexuality and angel love porn caresses the world

My neurons melt with lust; my synapses dance

Blue Snake greets the dawn

My personal dragons dance

Like so many menopausal crones in heat

I’m the love,  the humming love, of the universe

I am Butterfly Tree with the Jaguar; the stars

In the nightsky kiss my fur 

I am another yourself.  We are the monarch butterflies who flutter by.  We refuse to die.  FUDGE Monsanto! 

Thank you God for making me!   Pink faery glitter to all!  


Inanna and Tammuz

Oh, my beloved Bono, your phallus winks out at me from those
shiny leather pants on that stage at Live Aid in 1987
Bob Geldof, he birthed another Woodstock of the 80s
You, Bono, have filled my dreams ever since I saw
“The Joshua Tree” film. At first, I thought
you weren’t that handsome, then
I knew the power of your lips

tracing every inch of my skin
your tongue dipping into my cunt
as a hummingbird dips its beak into a big, red tube flower
The wingbeat of your heart on top of my pelvis
my breasts run with your sweat
your kisses they grace my thighs
our ears are full of our honeyed signs
the sheets are soaked with our passion

Oh, Bono, you orgasm my every breath
I breathe your every orgasm… (sigh)

How Do I Apologize To Myself for Those Unkind Words?

I don’t know anybody who is perfect.  I’m so full of ego!  Easing God Out!  What am I protecting myself from?  Too much intimacy!  Too much merging of minds, and bodies.  

Scotty Angry Angel!

What am I protecting the world from?  A lust-ridden meltdown?  I am a Saint.  I am a Human.  I am proud.  I am ashamed.  I wish I could do something to help the children, the old, the sick, and the poor.  I have been many of those things!  

How do I make it up to myself for all the Hell I’ve put myself through?  The voluntary homelessness (I always had a roof over my head, but no lease and some very crazy monster roommates!)  I’ve faced being broke and nearly starving!  I own so many tech gadgets, it’s hilarious!  I have financial challenges.  They are temporary.  

It’s ALL temporary!  The motto might be “Enjoy It While It Lasts.”  This refers to chocolate, sex, Arabic language homework, live rock concerts, walks in nature and sunshine, and hugging trees and friends!  It could all be gone in the next breath.  

Life is NOT a bitch!  Then, I FLY!  I don’t die!  

If only I could do it all more perfectly next time!  NO, I don’t care to repeat this lifetime.  20 years’ of seclusion and almost zero sex relations is enough to last me, say, 2,000 MORE years!  I ride the wheel of time!  Like Kali!  


A Love Letter to Myself

Conte Goddess
this is sorta what I look like when naked!
Dear Linda,

       I don’t know why I continue to make your life Hell. I have always hated your guts. You are the most evil, fucked-up person in the world. At times, I’ve had thoughts of killing you and leaving you dead in the dust. With rivers of blood streaming from every body part.

       You’re OK. And you’re really, really fucked. I love you. I hate you. I can’t decide which. You’re a complete and utter failure at saving humanity or making the world a better place.

       And yet, you are my best friend. You’re intelligent, you’re worthwhile. I hope for all the best for you.

       It’s just that I can’t see you employed in the foreseeable future. You’re too quirky. You’re not mechanical, or lazy. You have feelings. You have thoughts. You have certain dreams.

       I wish there was a Higher Angel around that would tell me to Shut Up and Stop Nagging You. I wish I were perfect. I wish I were married. Lame ass stupid idea, I know. I’m so demanding! I want TO MAKE LOVE. AND HAVE SEX. AND FUCK. I know. Ain’t gonna happen.

       Men want porn fantasies. They don’t want real woman who bitch and nag and bleed and fart regularly. In other words, every woman on the planet. Your Mother. My mother. My sister (if I had one). My best friend (I have at least two).

       Am I the only white nigger on the planet? Because I sure treat myself like one! Oh, shit. A forbidden word! Quick! Swat it like a fly! It’s like killing Satan. Satan won’t be killed. He’s a part of us. He invented chocolate. I think. Devil’s food. Sounds like a good time just waiting to happen.

       I’m not as lily-white as I like to think. I put on a show. I pretend I’m undesirable. Repulsive. Undateable.

       But the truth is, I’m Venus. And I know it! I keep that to myself. I never let Aphrodite out of the closet. Except online. It’s that Distance Thing.

       I wish there was a way I could make up for all the hell I’ve put myself through! And calling it a life.

       Next lifetime? I hope I marry and have children, a real paid job, AND a house and car. Fat chance. I know. It’s too much for me to hope for. I am so unkind to myself.

       I wish I could be my own best friend. Real friends don’t let you get away with being cruel to yourself.

Love, Linda Smith

PS Yes, what a weird love letter. It lacks dirty talk, and is free of hopelessly mushy sentiment.   NO cornball Star Wars jokes, either. No obscenities. No tits and ass comments. No I want to touch your taco and buy your butt smartass kinda stuff. Why go there? I’d rather stare at your crotch. And give you a blow job with my eyes. It works. Deadly accurate seduction. Not a single inappropriate word uttered! Ha!

Facts About My Father

  1. My father was William Shakespeare in a past life.
  2. Dad and I have always had a good, close relationship.
  3. Dad is probably about 75, and he’s a retired Systems Analyst.
  4. Dad’s a stock market expert; he earns enough money in Investing to supplement his Social Security, such that he can afford a small house and car expenses. He’s a disciple of Jim Cramer and the street dot com. As in, WALL street!
  5. Dad’s a Virgo sun sign. He was born on the exact same day that World War 2 got started! The day Hitler invaded Poland!
  6. Dad has told me a couple of times, “I will never forget the wild and crazy night that I sired you!”
  7. I have always felt Dad’s criticism of me. He’s a Virgo sun sign. I have Virgo rising. Virgos are naturals at nitpicking details and also keeping up their health and appearance. That’s just like Dad!
  8. Dad has chosen not to communicate with me via the usual accepted worldly channels, nor does he see me in person. This hurts. But I forgive him. I think it’s because of my move away from the City of Herbs. You could nickname that town, Cannabis, CA!
  9. Dad is still alive and well, as far as I know. I will know in my heart of hearts when he isn’t. Unless Dad choose immortality! So far, those persistent rumors of my Father’s immortality have not been disproved!
  10. He’s named after St. Stephen, the First Martyr of the Christian faith.

    drawing of Linda's father
    Steve F. Smith