Well, hello there.

I’m by no means a virgin, but I have to say that this is my maiden voyage in writing for anyone but an English professor, or to my university appeals committee as to why I screwed up and deserve another chance. However, I feel that I have an interesting story to tell, and I’ve been told that I have a certain “knack” for writing – so what the hell?

Alcohol had always been my usual Band-Aid for life’s turbulence, and I was always responsible with drugs. Sure, I’d tried all of the basics through and after high school, but I knew better than to overdo it and get addicted to anything. Extacy still stands as my favorite drug given a choice, but I never did it more than a handful of times out of responsibility and preservation of my brain. Weed came around in my life now and again, but I never had an appreciation for it until I met my husband.

What I DID have an extreme appreciation for since, let’s say, approximately 12 years old (one of the first of many important milestones that my memory has seemed to erase from itself), is my vagina. My parents have never told me any embarrassing stories about discovering my vagina as a child, so my first recollection of exploring it was as a pre-teen sitting on the toilet at home and realizing that something felt good when I touched it – very good. (Romantic, right?)

After that, all I did was play with it, and find anything decent to put in it while dreaming about how incredibly mind-blowing sex must be. I wanted to experience what it felt like so badly that I, regrettably, remember almost wishing to be raped just to be able to feel what a penis is like. Almost, I said, because I had enough sense to know that rape is an experience that no organism should ever, ever be subjected to. However, my mind went to this place because getting raped seemed more of a possibility for me than finding a person of the opposite sex to actually love me based on the depletion of my self-confidence.

By that, I mean, I am the lucky recipient of a lifetime supply of depression! I was clearly in the wrong line when they were handing out mental health. With my half-brother committing suicide at age 27, and my father, sister, and now mother all plagued with the disease, I would like to point out that I believe I come by it honestly. Perhaps one day down the line I’ll delve into the origin of my personal onset if anyone decides they find me worthwhile to listen to, but for now I’d like to give you a little overview of what you’re getting yourself into should you choose to complete your mission and subscribe.

I sit before you not wanting to depress you with all of the terrible things that have happened to me (it’s life, right – we all have our stories), but to invite you to join me on an erotic journey narrated by a person with depression who enjoys the hell out of marijuana and masturbation – especially together.

My inspiration for writing this was the incredible, pressing need to tell someone – anyone – the world – what I discovered after my husband innocuously won me a toy through some erotica blogger he follows on Twitter. Some of the best moments of my life have been alone in bed with my new gadget and a joint listening to some trippy music while I spent hours exploring myself, and I simply couldn’t contain my knowledge anymore.

So, if you’ll have me, I’d love to entertain you on the john before work with my vast experiences with depression, weed, life-changing orgasms, music, and perhaps even a little erotica if you’re good. Have I covered all the bases? Sex, drugs, rock & roll? You tell me!

And those are my thoughts with a dildo in hand.