White Tigress Yoga. For anyone who had a decent chance of staying healthy but screwed it up and now needs something that works. Fast.

by LS Harteveld

So what’s your story? Why did you click this post, Googled White Tigress, looked for answers, despaired at night? Why did you buy this book? In the unlikely chance I actually manage to get this to print. Right now I’m just focusing on unleashing what’s within me.
To get this program OUT.
This modest form- written out in a blogpost – will be enough to smooth out the sharpest edges of my guilt for putting it off. Enough to forget the handful of failed attempts to get it out there earlier.
In Facebook notes.
In blogposts.
In free videos.
Paid online programs.
I never finished any of them. Either because it was too boring (translating from Dutch, or writing out all the exercises). Or because I was tired of men staring at my butt on YouTube.
I ve been wanting to share this information for years, but I have been surprisingly unsuccessful. For someone with ten books out, whose profession it is to teach yoga, and who has been on the White Tigress path for ten years (this is my White Tigress Facebook page), I was making quite an ordeal out of it.
But no more.
I have ONE weekend. Not even a whole weekend, just a Saturday and a Sunday. But this weekend I m going to share with you my life’s work;
The Yoga of the White Tigress.

Origin Story

click the picture and see the book on Amazon

The name White Tigress was coined by Hsi Lai. A writer, and spiritual seeker who wrote a book
Sexual Teaching of the White Tigress;
Secrets of the Female Taoist Masters. (2001)
The book offers an inspiring read for single women. In 2017 I published a tiny guide (Dutch), on how modern day women can use this wisdom to elevate their status from being single to “solitary”; fully embracing the fact that some of us are born to roam free.
And how they can use sex, and their interaction with men, to get energized instead of depleted.
I started translating this guide to English.
But just like most of my White Tigress endeavors it just died out. I do have the idea of making something completely different for the English market; a manifesto.
But that is not this post. Not this book.
Right now I m focusing on yoga.

The holy Trinity; Lineages that Inspired me

There is no such thing as “the yoga of the White Tigress”
If you read the original book, you’ll discover a series of physical exercises. Some of them – that engage the pelvic floor, as well as the ones that would make you a qualified applicant for the Chinese State Circus – could pass as yoga.
But you’d have to excavate this yoga from underneath breast massage, dances for a thin waistline and a bra that keeps your nipples free to breathe.
So they’re not easy to find.
For this program, I will mark these original exercises with a tiger which – due to my limited drawing skills and my current OBSESSION with my cat Max who is really old and not doing very well- will look more like a cute house cat than a tiger.
So the cat’s head in the drawings means its an original White Tigress exercise.
“Original” means either directly from the book. Or they are a body-friendly adaptation to avoid breaking you in half.
The second book that inspired me is The Bible For All Women’s Yoga; Hormone Yoga Therapy by Dinah Rodrigues. It’s not on Amazon anymore, but you can buy it (as well as dvd’s and other books on the topic) on her own website.
The third book that inspired me is Luna Yoga from Adelheid Olig. Whose gentle exercises I will use especially in the first few schedules, but whose general idea of how to do it – namely to FEEL into them, instead of performing them mechanically – I recommend you use throughout all the schedules.
Learn to trust yourself.
I think the intuitive approach that Olig gives to yoga, is exactly what people need this day and age. Especially the ones who clicked a title about screwing up their health.
So let’s start.

It’s up to you

The title of this post says;
“for anyone who had a decent chance of staying healthy but screwed it up and now needs something that works. Fast.”
There’s a  reason I chose for that. Aside from the fact that I like really long, salesy titles. Which are such an improvement to the way things used to be, which was informative and neutral. So I mean aside from that.
Because there is a part in this title which is crucial before this or any other program can work for you. Four words.
“But screwed it up”
That is you taking massive responsibility for where you are today. If you were struck with a disease or ailment, that was a matter of bad luck or poor genes? You wouldn’t believe a post like this could help you.
If you were stuck in feeling victimized?
No. You wouldn’t be reading either.
And you shouldn’t.
Because this program is only going to work if you are in a position to take back control, and turn around whatever is bothering you.
I ll give you an example of why that’s important.
I run a yoga studio and it’s the only studio in the city, and who knows maybe worldwide, where we don’t sell single classes. You write me an email why you would like to join, and I assess if you’d be a good fit for the group you are applying for and you register for half a year.
That’s it.
Because if a student comes for one class, without having decided if he or she wants to take on yoga? Three guesses on who’s doing the heavy lifting?
The teacher.
Basically it’s like: “If I like this class, I m going to do yoga. If I don’t, I m not.”
That’s crap. If you start yoga based on one teacher, or one class, or even a series of classes? I know you’re gonna get disappointed eventually. We all have stuff that comes up during yoga, or any other course where you will feel challenged at times. And unless you decided that you were gonna do it? You’re not going to make it through. Trying one class, one 6 week -course, or signing up for a month, keeps you stuck in a commitment-free zone.
Unconsciously (or worse; consciously) staying open to the next best thing that promises to help you lose weight, get fit, etcetera. Unless YOU decide it’s gonna be yoga for YOU, no one, especially not a yoga teacher, should be involved in your decision making process.
I do have a money-back guarantee if a student wants to quit after the first class. But the fact that the commitment, in the form of registration and payment, has preceded this first class? That’s what makes the difference. That’s what will make their yoga path a success.
And let’s say you disagree with me on that.
I respect that.
I could even come up with a few lovely students of my own who will claim they needed that first trial class, so there you go.
Let’s say I m wrong. And that by just starting to do yoga, without committing, you can keep doing it and become a yogi. Wouldn’t you then STILL agree, that it makes it a whole lot easier, if the yoga teacher or studio or basically any service provided, would force you to look inside yourself if this is really you?
If you were not persuaded by a payment plan or sale, but had to pay full price, so that you were committed and involved from the start, and didn’t stay so… coasting. Class after class, after week, after month.
The matter of choice, of the internal work preceding any lifestyle program, is the number one reason programs fail. Not because the program is no good, nor because the participant is no good, but because somewhere, between Groupon offers, acute physical ailments and a life already overflowing with responsibilities, someone took CHOICE out of the equation. Someone dropped the COMMITMENT ball, and no one bothered to pick it up.
I m not talking about choice for a studio or a teacher. I m talking about first knowing that yoga is for you. And a commitment to yoga, or more deeply, to yourself.
You can find free 30 Day Yoga Challenges from Yoga with Adriene on YouTube. That’s a perfect way to get acquainted, you don’t need a studio to know if it’s for you. For me it was because Madonna had started doing yoga, that I knew I wanted to do that. And it’s still that decision and commitment, why I know I ll keep doing it for the rest of my life.
A friend described it as;
“Yoga is always there. Even when you haven’t been on your mat for months. You know you can pick it up. And that you will.”
This is not someone who is looking out for the latest fitness fad. And neither should you.
For any program you start and any sports or meditative practice you want to invest time in, decide;
“Does this fit my ultimate lifestyle?
Is this who I want to become?”
I’ll give you an example of why it is so easy to think that you want something, when in reality, it’s just something that is taking you offtrack. And we all know how draining those months are where you miss one workout, two trainings, three yoga classes… Until you re finally so disappointed (with yourself) you stop going altogether.
Before Madonna was into yoga, she did running. And I started toying with the idea of doing it. It was at a time when the most heartfelt form of exercise I knew involved a set of ten kilo dumbbells, so I could see there was room for improvement. And then someone who ran marathons explained to me, that I could train to “lead” for him. I would be someone who would walk half, leading him. This sounded like a cool goal. So I joined a club to train, and I had was an amazing trainer, who I still consider my friend.
But then I started missing training.
And because I still thought it was a cool goal (running half a marathon) I did buy into my own excuses of why I wasn’t going. I was sure I would pick it up. The trainer even sent me a few heartwarming notes at the time.
But in the end?
That I had a nice trainer, and a great goal, had clouded my vision. The running wasn’t me. I’m not an endurance athlete, and maybe I m not an athlete at all. I like creative and elegant forms of movement. Not repetitive ones. It was the same reason I had stopped going to fitness. It didn’t feed my soul.
As soon as Madonna appeared with her new bohemian look, rock hard shoulders, and flat-as-a-board postnatal tummy, all from yoga? I knew this was it.
Not only did yoga fit my preferences for what type of movement I preferred, way more than any other form of workout ever would, it also fit like a glove around my personality, and more importantly;
about who I wanted to become.
Yoga, was a lifestyle choice.
Before you embark on your yoga journey, or before you recommit, I want you to invest time in choosing your idols, or catch up with your role models. Reconnect with your visions. What do you want for yourself?
You can check YouTube for the timelapses from Meghan Currie, who shows what it means to be fully in your body as you move through the poses. I already mentioned Yoga with Adriene, and for men I also found Sean Vigue Fitness at 10 Great yoga Channels for Free Videos (YogiApproved.com)
And only when the thought of becoming a yogi, and making yoga your lifelong companion, ignites your heart and soul?
Only then, should you proceed.

For who is it suitable /  disclaimers

All exercises are beneficial for men as well.
Do not practice White Tigress, or any other yoga, when you are pregnant without consulting a doctor and a yoga teacher.
If you are menstruating only practice;
3 The Tigress opens up
4 The Tigress’ lair
Do not practice the other schedules since they either contain inversions or strong belly contractions which could disturb the bleeding.

The Program

I’m about to share with you seven yoga schedules, for the seven days of the week. Over the years I ve also created yogavideos.
You can find my twenty White Tigress videos here.
They are a great way to get started, and it will make it so much easier to understand the schedules afterwards. If you’re familiar with yoga, you can choose between working with the schedules below, or take a browse through the videos.


White Tigress uses two different types of breathing.
If there are no breathing instructions it’s;
Inhale through the nose – belly rises.
Exhale through the nose – belly releases.
If it says “25K” or “10K”
It means twenty-five Kapalabhati breaths.
This is;
Inhale through the nose – belly rises.
Exhale sharply through the nose, by pulling the belly in.
If you’re more advanced you can do your Kapalabhati very quickly.
In the beginning you will have to take it slow, because the abdominal wall will need more time to relax before you can draw it in again.
All repetitions are just an indication. If you can, don’t count at all and work more intuitively.
Same goes for the exercises themselves.
They’re just guidelines. Feeling what your body needs, is always better because it forces you to be aware. For your consciousness to be inside your body. This does more for your entire well-being than any prescribed exercise.
You’re invited to play around, and make it your own.

Planning/ how to use this program

Every series is given in two schedules;
the first without instructions, the second with.
Make sure you read the “breathing” paragraph above, especially before doing schedule 5-7
You can find all schedules below in the appendix or print all schedules in one go from this Word file
Beginners are encouraged to start with the videos, as given above, and/ or to initially practice one week per schedule, starting with number 1, The Tigress rolls on her back.
If you master all schedules you can practice one for every day of the week, or alternatively, only practice number 7 daily.

Final thoughts

I wrote this book in one weekend, just like I intended to. And I even had a social life, spending a good part of both my Saturday as well as my Sunday in a bar. Which is probably why it’s already way after midnight.
Monday already, technically.
Writing this book has sparked a desire in me to practice these series, just like I’ve shared them here with you; one for every day of the week.
I hope the White Tigress has inspired you too, and that she has you back on your paws in no time.

LS Harteveld

– my 2018 workshops in the Netherlands to learn White Tigress Yoga
– release of the printed version of this White Tigress yoga book
– any other upcoming work on White Tigress lifestyle
If you are Dutch you can buy my lifestyle guide Witte Tijgerin, LS Harteveld (€ 5) at the Feeks, Nijmegen (ook online), or take my yogaclasses in Nijmegen.

APPENDIX The schedules

day 1 – The Tigress rolls on her back

day 2 – The Tigress stretches her paws

day 3 – The Tigress opens up

Day 5-7 contain 25K and 10K breathing instructions
– consult the “Breathing” paragraph for instructions

day 4 – The Tigress’ lair

day 5 – The Tigress fires up

day 6 – The Tigress draws within

day 7 – The White Tigress roar


The Tigress is BACK. And here to stay.

Just this week when we did a fire meditation in my yoga class, and I taught my students;
“The fire may not take it.
Your offering may not burn.”

Sometimes when we think we should discard something, say goodbye, move on?  When we know it’s better for ourselves, the ones around us, the world in general and those we serve in particular? When it’s time to move to the next level and burn the vessel on which we came? You know what the fire could say?

Just like for my students, it might be a visualization where whatever you threw into the flames, doesn’t evaporate. But more often, it’s a project that roots itself fiercely in your brain, the minute you decide to part with it. A person that you Just. Can’t. Stop. Thinking. About. The second you break up with them!
That’s when your fire is saying;

And you can twist and wriggle, but very likely the signs that you’ve made the wrong decision will just keep piling up. I drew a card yesterday and it had a whole story on it. And it all connected to my decision to leave this temporary blog The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai, and to continue my White Tigress work only marginally, my Facebook site, and to write Dutch and English White Tigress guides on my LS Harteveld site.
I wasn’t going to make the White Tigress into some sort of flagship for who I was, or crown myself Queen of the Tigresses. It just didn’t feel right.
And besides, I had work to do, publishing my books The Wait Worth 8.
I would write the English and Dutch lifestyle guides for White Tigresses in my spare time, but I wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it.
Except then the fire said NO.

And the card said;
What good does it do knowing approximately where the treasure lies, yet never digging?
Having a bank account with millions in it, but never writing a check?
Or discovering the fountain of youth, but never drinking a drop?
You must live the truths you discover;
you must break your old rules, defy logic, be the change.
Dig, write the check, and drink eternally, one little step after another.
There’s no other way.
{Notes of the universe on Abundance Mike Dooley}

And suddenly I got this sense of urgency. Of knowing that all my White Tigress knowledge needed to be shared NOW. Including all the yoga exercises that I have been afraid to share because there are contra indications. I got nervous and held back. But I ll do it.
Make the videos.
Translate the guide.
Share my journey.

Received this post by email? Then you’re on my list. You’re automatically transferred from the 100 Day Tutelage to the new name of this blog;
the White Tigress Lair.

If you like to claim your place in the den, leave your email address and you will receive every post by mail.

Because you know what’s the best part about discarding things, and then they come back to you? You know with a hundred percent certainty that it is really yours.

The White Tigress is here to stay.

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

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Are you Dutch? My new FREE guide De Witte Tijgerin is online now.

You can find the content of the old blog, The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai, in its edited, vastly improved form as part of my book Big;
Part 4 and 5: The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai and More Erotica
And although I did some vigorous editing, often feeling like I was cutting it in half, I’m incredibly proud of the result.

My name is LS Harteveld, I write erotica and diaries.
You can prescribe to my private mailinglist

I’ll be waiting….

The White Tigress has moved her lair. Come housewarm. { final mail }

read my final story,
subscribe immediately to my private mailinglist
or follow the White Tigress on Facebook

by LS Harteveld

Sixteen months ago I started my White Tigress journey, on this temporary blog. Quite some people subscribed to the The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai. And it breaks my heart to end it.
But I have no choice.

With Hsi Lai, the author’s name of the original White Tigress book, in the title, I’m not going to make it the title of my book, or my Facebook page.
I sincerely hope he sells more White Tigress books because of my simplified version of the White Tigress. And that my White Tigress work will benefit him. Because although this blog will end, the work continues.

The blog, or this journey, has unleashed my inner White Tigress.
Although not in the way I expected it would.

early beginnings

One intense sexual dalliance with a stranger
is more beneficial than a hundred encounters with one’s own mate.

Chinese proverb

The journey did not start early 2016. But early 2007, at Ash Wednesday.
I bought Hsi Lai’s White Tigress book, on how solitary women can stay young and develop themselves spiritually. And ever since then, it has been a continuous source of inspiration in my life. It is the only personal development book I refer to for a variety of subjects. Yoga, sex, spirituality.
In February 2016, I went public with me being a White Tigress student and started this 100 Day Tutelage; a challenge to practice the White Tigress yoga and lifestyle, including a focus on oral sex, for a hundred days.

What few people realized was that the title was a direct reference to the movie Kill Bill, where one of the chapters is called; The Cruel Tutelage of Pa Mei
Although the movie doesn’t have anything to do with sex, it does portray one of the strongest female characters in movie history – Beatrice Kiddo, also referred to as Kiddo, B., or the Black Mamba, and played by Uma Thurman.
I thought the analogy was appropriate since The White Tigress too, operates alone and is strong willed.

In the first Chapter, The Origin of Hsi Lai, I give a summary of the book, and explain The White Tigress theory, comparing it to Tantra and mainstream Taoism.  Because my problems were physical, as I was suffering from irregular menstruation, I was totally focused on understanding the physical practices. The literal do’s and don’ts. But in May things changed.

The Saint

On May 6th, 2016 I stopped drinking. I was still nowhere near being consistent in my White Tigress practices, and I figured that by quitting the white wine at least I would be making some effort to clear up my diet. I didn’t have to feel a total White Tigress failure.
Once the haze of the alcohol had vaporized, I found myself feeling pristine clean, and reborn. And with an incredible lust to write erotica.
Because that was what had really been the problem.
My focus had been on getting healthy, fixing my period, doing yoga, publishing my books, running my studio, writing blog posts for the studio and so on. An endless to-do list of becoming a responsible adult and quit being such a mess.
And in doing so the first thing I had dropped was writing erotica; a way too frivolous time passing for someone who’s life and reproductive organs were falling apart.

So I shifted my focus from trying to fit into the box, to setting myself free and do which came naturally. To write those stories down whenever they wanted to come out.

This conclusion was drawn in Chapter 7 – Face to Face.
And after that I wrote three erotic stories, right here on this site;
The Saint, The Quickie and The Choice.
And if you re wondering why there are no links? Hold your horses!
I ll guide you in a minute.

The Tigress takes her throne

Once I got back on the erotica train, things turned for the better. I stopped feeling guilty for being a slacker Tigress and did what I do best;
Enjoy sex. Write about it. And to analyse; Where I was holding myself back?
And in the end of 2016 there it was;
the breakthrough that I am still enjoying today.
The realization that I really am my own woman, my own Queen. And that I don’t need my lover to choose for me, in order to justify my love, my lust, my existence. Nothing.
I was free.

I started my own White Tigress Facebook group to further develop my thoughts and to share all the things I now knew about being an independent single woman, and choosing the path of the White Tigress. I could have shared it on this blog, but I felt this blog was for different things. That The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai represented a time in my life when I was still unclear about so many aspects of myself, as well as about the specifics of White Tigress path that I now advocate. This blog was a temporary vessel, not the purpose itself.

You can find the content of this entire blog, in its edited, vastly improved form, as part of my book Big, diaries and erotica. And although I did some vigorous editing, often feeling like I was cutting it in half, I m incredibly proud of the result.
Part 4 and 5: The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai and More Erotica
This is also the ending to Big. And Big is the final diary of my eight books The Wait Worth 8.

So even though this blog The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai, has hereby ended, and the closing credits will soon roll over the screen, there is a happy ending.
And a to be continued.

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Choose your preferred way to stay in touch;
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– are you Dutch? My new FREE guide De Witte Tijgerin is online now.

I’ll be waiting….

erotic story: The Choice

1994-madonna-esquire-03I first noticed it last summer, although to this day I have no idea what caused it. Instead of just opening the front door and staying in his penthouse apartment, Big was waiting in the hallway. The black haircut appeared slightly longer, and the eyes had a friendliness that conflicted with their icy blue color. But more than anything it was the wordless longing that was expressed in him being there, literally meeting me halfway. I felt like Dian Fossey the moment a gorilla acknowledges her presence; it moved me. I was grateful, yet I had no hope this change was permanent. I was still living on one night of alcohol induced I love yous from last year, so I expected this second cameo of his soft side to be short lasting. Soon he would be the tough, married business man, who did whatever was required to be successful in the field of finance, family life, and pleasure. He was able to downsize himself, to make me feel at ease. And I still needed that casual ignorance and the lighthearted jokes to relax around him. But I had never mistaken his behavior for vulnerability. But the moment in the hall? I immediately treasured it as his second slip of the heart, as evidence he loved me, not knowing how long I had to go without signs this time. But something had changed.

He grew more consistent in asking me out, and in sending messages every couple of days. And for the first time in our entire affair, he allowed me a glimpse of the drama that was the cause of havoc in his marriage and family life. I cried. Early this year, I had decided: “Whatever reasons he has to do this, I can trust them to be just.” I didn’t doubt he was a cheater, or as I had diagnosed it: a closet case polyamorist. But I could feel in my bones our affair had not been planned this way. That it exceeded the level of secretive fun with lady friends or exes he picked up in bars, something I hoped he still did because it turned me on. I wasn’t justifying his cheating, no excuse was needed there. But it was because after our night of I love yous I was certain he was crazy about me, and didn’t understand why he didn’t crossover.
That’s when I decided; “He has his reasons.”
The thought had comforted me. Except now that he had told me what was going on in his family, it was far from comforting. And my part in it, the unacknowledged mistress, was already the long end of the straw. Regardless of if, or how, or which, things would end.

I wrote him a love letter closing with;
I will cherish every moment we have together. And I want you to stop thinking that a man who would choose for me would make a better partner. I am my own woman and I made my choice. And it’s you.

It is a rainy November night and I’m going to see Big. He greets me in the hallway with the words: “Hello, Red Riding Hood.”
And his smile and light tone of voice make the mockery sound like a love poem.
“Hello Wolf.”
He takes my red woolen coat, and I snuggle my scarf and gloves over the heater.
“If you ever break up with me, I ll only have black men,” I announce, apparently looking for an acceptable alternative, should the highly arrousing Big leave me.
“You already did that. Before me.”
“I was still pretty versatile. How do the other women do that? Don’t they miss you?”
“Like they would tell me!”
We go into the kitchen and he makes us hot coco with whipped cream. And I explore my favorite topic a little further.
“I was serious though. Even if it’s just after one night, I m sure they all want more.”
“Not really. I’m always very clear.”
“Sure. The next day. That’s what makes you evil. You fuck them and then you’re clear.”
“No, I always say it upfront. So they have a choice.”
Big ensures me it’s common sense and simply serves his own interest. He learned early in life, that if you leave that open, there’s going to be trouble.
“Sometimes they didn’t want sex anymore. That’s okay.”
I think back to our first dates. Which were marked by him wanting sex, and me trying to refuse because it was going so fast, and he scared me both emotionally and physically. I’m sure that if he had warned me it meant nothing, he would have gotten nowhere with my tensed up body and anxious mind.
“I didn’t get a disclaimer,” I state, like it’s evidence of some sorts.
“Now what does that tell you?”
His smile is devilish and loving.

The past weeks went by fast, and were marked by an uncanny number of intimacies. Big hung out on my couch with my cat Max, who he fist bumped because Max supposedly craved male companionship. He mastered Max’s wide eyed facial expression, and used it to get my hugs and kisses on demand. He supported me, cracking jokes when I had to call the GP’s office to get my STD results. And I finally conquered my shame, and asked him to play doctor with me. I would say “bringing in the big guns”, but that would probably be too graphic.

We’re on the couch with our coco.
“I masturbated a lot, after last time,” I say.
That happened often. My libido could dry up easily, both within a relationship or with regard to masturbation. But after seeing Big, it would flare back up. And sustain, sometimes for a whole week.
“You fulfilled my deepest fantasy. Even though it was just the try-out.”
“A try-out? I did stuff I had to Google!”
“Well you know! We didn’t really role play. It was just the technical side.”

Big had thrown in sufficient doctor lines to turn me on, but it had been clear I was running the show. We had been at my place, and I had brought up some concerns with regard to sex. And Big came with a tempting invitation saying:
“Maybe you should determine what we’re going to do today.”
“Really? Well I still have something. Just not sure if you’re into it.”
Between taking out my minimalist but deliciously intimidating toy collection and displaying it on the nightstand – unpacking every item like Christmas had come early – I would exuberantly jump on a wide smiling Mr.Big who was lying on my bed.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this!” I exclaimed.
No wonder the high lasted a week.

“What’s in the bag?” Big asks, nodding to the backpack I use for everything from grocery shopping to city trips. Just never on dates.
“Everything….” I say. And smile so widely, I can already feels last week’s excitement. “I don’t want to miss out. Should the mood strike.”
“Judging from your smile, it already has. You always grin when we play.”
“I know! Because it’s everything I fantasized about. You do all the hard work, being dominant. That’s why the dominants can be hired. No one hires a sub to have a good time.”
“We could make you the first,” Big suggests. “I could pay you to abuse you.”
I’m so excited I almost shake my whipped cream out of my mug.
“Really? Are you gonna pay me?!”
I never asked to play out my escort fantasy. Most of all because I suspected it would require me to be in control, and I wasn’t sure how to get pleasure from that. I had never thought of being paid to be submissive.
“You would of course, be submitted to anything I want to do with you,” he drags his voice.

After making me wait outside, he comes to get me, blindfolding me before I enter.

He’s undressing me. I shiver, although the apartment is not cold. He caresses my skin, touching slightly longer than necessary to unhook my bra. To pull down my jeans. Holding me steady with one arm around my legs as he asks me to step out of my panties. There is something so masculine about him, so steady and determined. The anticipation, adds to the excitement. What will he do?

He places a hand on my back and maneuvers me to the table, and makes me bend over. I lean on my forearms. Waiting. He caresses my pussy.
“Good, you’re wet. You ll need that.”
I moan when he slips his fingers in me. As he slowly moves them deeper and back, he starts to talk. In that husky, enchanting voice.
“I’m going to make this as pleasurable as I can. But I m not going to stop. Do you understand that?”
I feel a warm wave towards his fingers, and say yes I do. My forehead pressing on my fists. For a moment I lose him. He just leaves me there waiting.
“Now this will be a bit cold.”
I gasp as he wets my ass and pushes a finger in. Damn, I didn’t expect that. My mind immediately catches on to what this means for our session. I think I know what he picked from the bag. The finger slips out.
“This should feel alright. Just relax as much as possible.”
A soft, slim, toy entering. Oh, I know what he picked.

More than a year ago, I joined him on a business trip. On our way to dinner, he suggested hopping into a sex shop. We cheekily browsed through the shelves and he showed me a box that said anal starter kit, which I welcomed with inappropriate enthusiasm. I was still studying all the different props on the back of the box, when he said: “Or maybe this one.”
It was called the anal stretching kit, and it had three black butt plugs. Slim, average and extra wide.
“After all, you’re not exactly a beginner.”
I liked the rich content of the first box, but I knew the second would be much more practical. The first box was a bit like how they sell boxes of assorted fireworks in the Netherlands: it looks like a lot, and it makes you greedy, but if you sieve through it, you realize there’s only a few really good ones in there.
I chose the second.
We rarely used it, because they were kept at my place. And when we did, we never, ever, used the XL.

He pulls the toy out.
“I think you’re ready for the next.”
I ve had that one. Two, maybe three times. And it helped a lot. Because anal sex had been painful. More than Big knew.
I had talked about the props with my gay best friend.
“It doesn’t hurt when he preps me first! But do you have that too? The after-cramps?”
But my friend shook his head.
“I think men and women are quite different down there.”

“Want some more lube?”
“Please,” I squeek.
And I feel a slippery finger in, and a warm palm massaging my buttcheek. He pushes in a second finger and I gasp again.
“Oh God….”
It’s standing here like this, that arouses me. Giving up everything. Suffering everything. An emotion I feel quite alone in, but in a positive way. Like the perfect solitude of masturbation. Even Big, being dominant, will never understand this dark pleasure of being allowed to surrender. Just like I will not understand his.
“Okay just relax. I will go slow.”
I bite my hand, say “Oh God”, and confess “It’s scary”.
“I’ll be gentle.”
I can feel the tip of the second plug go in, and then he pulls it back slightly. This one is stressful already. Probably because I know he’ll go for that third one after. He pushes it further in and a sharp pain, scary and vicious, makes me gasp and beg, in one collapse of body language. My mouth just says “Ow!” but only after I have recovered. After, I have found the strength in my legs again and have quickly shoved back to my position leaning onto my forearms. And before I start to cry blindfolded tears.
I hesitate if I want to step out of the game, depending on what it is that’s causing this. This grief, so bitter sweet. The dildo must be fully in now. Two hands caressing my broken back, stroking my soft hair. Fingertip following my paranoid jaws.
“Are you okay?”
The voice so comforting and strengthening. I nod. I say “It’s a bit much” only to have that confession suck me in even deeper into that lonely haze of unnamed grief.
“It’s a bit much,” I repeat.
Still not knowing if I want him to stop, and rescue me from whatever is triggered here.

There is no more talking when I feel his fingers in my pussy. Gentle at first, then a two fingered twist. I hear a condom foil, and bite my upper arm in longing. It never feels as if he initiates, or forces, but as if he’s hot wired to my brain. To the part I don’t have access to. The part that has the answers, and knows which grief to soothe, what pain to end, and when despair is a cue to give you your first double penetration ever in your whole fucking life.

I bite my arm again and the tears increase because it’s all so damn perfect. Yes, I’ve chosen.

He makes his cock linger at the entrance. My body and mind are still confused, both in their own way. Dripping wet but tensed up. Crying but aroused. His cock moves in, and my “Oh God” has never been more real.
“I love you!”
And with that confession I bury my face in the my arms, the blindfold, and the unforgiving cold hard table. The hotness between my legs and the grief leaving my body, both fighting for attention. And then I surrender to both of them, and they mix, and become my personal version of heaven.

I beg him to stop to recover from my orgasm. But he ignores it. A minimal slowing down of his thrusts, but he grips my hips more firmly. Whenever I start overthinking it he hurts me. Moves the butt plug painfully. Fucks me too deep. Pinches my nipples. He delays his orgasm in the most horrible, delicious, magnetizing way. Until finally, I feel his body leaning forward, his arm wrapping around me, his head buried in my neck, when in bull-like fashion, he comes.

There are no tears or moans left for me to utter. Worn-out, I wait until the panting stops, the heavy hug tightens, and the husky voice gives me the ultimate pleasure.

“I love you too.”

The Choice
will very likely be my final story on Big, a journey that started early 2015.
I will publish my English erotica together with my 2015 and 2016 diaries in a book called Big. (book 8)

Chapter 9. Elle and I

-M4tV3RPvAplIt’s been over two months since my insight I was ready for The One. And since I extended this 100 day challenge with a new one, which included publishing my books, writing erotica, and keeping an offline diary.
I won’t bother you with the details, but I ended up committing to two huge projects for my yogastudio – YouTube videos as well as a Dutch online yoga program, The One is not in sight, and I have no idea where my diary is. And erotica? Countless encounters with Mister Big stayed off record. And not just because they involved things that require a whole new level of self-acceptance before I’m ready to share them.
The only 100 day promise I kept, was to work on my books. Which was not accidentally, also my priority.

The books are created online, which means you can read them through this link.
Yes, you’re welcome sweetheart.

Because my work is autobiographical, editing my books means I m rereading my man quest, man trouble, man desires from eight years back and beyond. And two things stand out. No three. Three things stand out.
1. I m never jealous if I suspect or know a man has someone else
2. I have a weak spot for unavailable (read: taken) men, which has “deteriorated” with age.
3. I keep wishing for an available, single man
I am embarrassed to say I never saw the conflict here, until I read this article about compersion.

Compersion is described as “A feeling of joy when a loved one invests in and takes pleasure from another romantic or sexual relationship.”
It’s a fine line between compersion and candaulism- the latter often described as arousal (instead of joy) from another being involved in sexual activity (not relationship).
The urban dictionary stresses the two are separate things, and even strips compersion of any sexual meaning, by saying “it’s comparable to the joy a parent feels when their child gets married”
Okay, thank you for that horrible comparison.

The article I referred to holds a definition of compersion I prefer: to get aroused (not just feel joy) from basically the idea, or knowledge, that your partner is having sex with someone else. I m still weary at including getting aroused from the other being “romantically involved”, as is the writer from that article. I think it’s clear to everyone that the more involved a partner is with this person, the higher the stakes. The more chance jealousy will win, and things will turn ugly.

I m not saying I don’t see myself doing that – being aroused by him having a relationship. It’s just that I understand why there seems to be a desire to separate either:
– your partner having sex with someone else and you being aroused
– or your partner having a second relationship and you being joyful
And the urban dictionary does that by giving the first the name candaulism and the second compersion, and the writer of the article does it by describing how the whole experiment started with “the absolute gut-level assurance that my boyfriend loves me more than I ever dreamed possible”. Clearly she’s after the first scenario, and not joyful at all over the idea of her partner starting a second meaningful relationship.

New Sexual Preference discovered

So even though I think the writer of the article could have gone with candaulism, what opened my eyes is that it shone a completely different light on the whole concept of open relationships. Between her sentences, describing how she and her boyfriend were in this together and how she took part in selecting the new partner, I discovered a whole new species… a whole new sexual orientation.
The compersionist.
Just like there are dominants and submissives, a cheater has a counterpart, or ideal partner if you wish, that everyone has failed to identify: the compersionist.
Someone who likes the idea of you having other partners. Like the dominant and the submissive, the compersionist and the cheater are like yin and yang. Like the hero and the vilian, they need each other. When matched to others they are dysfunctional, but together they make the perfect match.
The compersionist is the counterpart of the cheater, that no one, as far as I know, has managed to identify. She, or he, is really the missing link in our view on relationships.

Because I m going to take this one or two steps further down than the article:
a compersionist doesn’t want to cheat herself or himself.
I ll admit that I see myself capable of having two meaningful relationships (so maybe that makes me a cheater). But I’m not interested in flings, nor will I ever do something in secret.

And I think it’s partially because I don’t want to cheat, or see lovers for myself, that the term “Open relationships” gives me the creeps. They sound, equal. And like they would benefit from a script, a stage, clearly defined roles, and someone in charge. The reason I defied open relationships was never because I resisted the idea of my partner having someone else but because I wasn’t interested in messy, emotional dramas or naked strangers walking around in my house.

“Open relationships” had a nudist 70s ring to it, that was so deafening I failed to notice their quality. And managed to miss the preference I failed to see in myself. Until at age 44 I m revisiting my diaries, and notice:
1. I m never jealous if I suspect or know a man has someone else
2. I have a weak spot for unavailable (read: taken) men, which has “deteriorated” with age.
3. I keep wishing for an available, single man
And on the same day I read an article on compersion or candaulism, or however you want to call it, and suddenly I m like:
1. the reason you’re not jealous is because you totally get off on your guy and other women
2. the reason you prefer men in relationships is because they have another woman
3. the reason you don’t have an available, single man is because he could fail to cheat on you, and you’d hate that.

Just like I like to be play-raped, and play doctor, and love watching Stoya’s beautiful little pussy, I need a guy to have someone else. Sure- it would be great if I was number one. But being number two is a guarantee he has sex with someone else. And basically in an emotionally and physically non-threatening way.

I ve had this knowledge 24 hours now. So it’s hard to see the full extend of this. And if, how or when, I ll ever make a hard limit of being a man’s number one, and be with someone who is (3) single and available to me.

But I do understand that although I still desire that King and Queen, regal relationship, where we are indeed equal, that doesn’t mean I have a desire to behave the same. To have the same rights, and the same responsibilities. That my sexual preference runs way deeper than “not jealous” and is in fact something that needs to be nourished, and honored. Just like I have always honored his desire to have secrets. And his marriage will have my respect, now more than ever. Now that I realize why I chose him.

I remember a conversation I had with Big. Could be a year ago, but it’s something that comes up frequently. I always say to him: “If we ever get a normal relationship, I m giving you one task. One responsibility. It’s to make sure our life is never boring.”

Somehow I think he’s up for that.




Chapter 8. The Bride

2016 Madonna-Sean-PennLauren’s 100 Day Tutelage has ended and she is now on a quest writing erotica & a private diary. Which proves to be a flamboyant combination. 

I always wondered why Big didn’t leave his wife. I wondered every time we had The Best Sex Ever. Which was often. I wondered every time I could feel his jealousy. I wondered after I caught him drunk and he poured all withheld love over me. And stood by it even after he sobered up although he could never utter the words again. I wondered on the rare days his marriage seemed over because his wife was finally pushing through with the divorce. I wondered with every snippet of how they communicated and knew we would do so much better. And that he knew we would. Until it all boiled down to that same thought over and over:
What the fuck is keeping you so long?
But it was always a silent question.

On a torrential rainy morning I was figuratively struck by lightning. Mister Big had been the perfect lover for eighteen months. The one I had envisioned in 2006 when I broke with my long-term partner to find him. The other. The masculine, strong, independent soul with whom I could have love, intimacy and amazing sex, for the natural lifespan of the relationship. There was one tiny demand Mister Big never met but because it was so futile, given the grand scheme of things and the euphoria of finally finding someone who was sexually my equal, I never made a big deal out of it.
The small detail was: Mister Big was not available.
I wondered why he didn’t choose me. Of course I did. But I wasn’t convinced it would make our relationship, and certainly not the sex, any better if he left his wife.
But what I missed is this:
by not being available our affair would have an unnaturally long life.
At this rate we would still want to jump on each other age 95.
For a while I thought that would be okay. I had set out to find my perfect lover. I had found him. And we would ride it out having occasional sex and constant wondering why he didn’t choose me. Fine. Close enough to what I wanted right?

But this week I thought about the situation a little deeper. And about what I really wanted. Not “wanted out of this” but “wanted” as in: if you get three wishes then what are they. Or in my vocabulary: if you can manifest anything you desire (and I believe I can) what would you manifest?

Before I share my conclusions, let me explain a little bit about the manifestation train I was on. I m on a 100 Day Anais Nin challenge: writing my diary (offline) and writing erotica (here). The purpose of this challenge is to self-reflect and nurture my creative writing, but also to become more conscious of what it is I want. Top of my list: I wanted to publish my books but had a 7 year deep publishing block. A little more than a week into my challenge I got a clear insight, a vision, how to do the layout of the books. I took off editing and knew with absolute certainty I would finish this. I had it nailed. Over 90 days left and the biggest problem was already solved.
“That was easy!” I exclaimed. “What else do I want to solve?”
So I said “my love life”.

Since I was clueless what I wanted, I just gave the whole package over to the Universe. I said: “Today I will do this and that, and you (Universe) are to figure out my love life.”
I expected a clear vision of the layout for my love life. And riding my bike on a rainy day, there it was! Less than 48 hours after I had given Universe the assignment.
I saw I was in a relationship with a man. One. I can say I wouldn’t mind two (and name them) but there really was only one. I could see him being either Big or Benjamin (still owe you an introduction on him. Suffice to say Benjamin is about as available as ice cream in the Sahara) but I knew Universe doesn’t give you names and faces. It gives you the feeling of being in that relationship.
And I saw myself totally acting my age. A sexy and mature woman. A queen. Unwavering. Deserving. Confident. This was a different phase of my life.
My thirties had been about my coming of age sexually, but I was now ready for the next step. I needed a new challenge: to be in a perfect relationship.

I saw a king and a queen: equal and regal. We were a team and as a team we got better at our game. We celebrated our victories and achieved things neither one of us could have done alone. Like any couple we would have the challenge of keeping our sex life alive, but I saw that as a challenge in a good way. One you grow from. It was exactly like looking for the perfect lover when you have enough sexual fears to paralyze you forever. And since I had successfully passed that test and was still enjoying the fruits of it with Mister Big, I was confident having a relationship and keeping it in supreme condition was something I would find enjoyable.

I cycled on through the rain, grateful for the vision I received and delighted with this unexpected change of my life. I said: “Today I will teach my classes and go see a movie with friends. And I want you to find me The One.”

This time it will not take 8 years to find him.

erotic story: The Quickie

2010 madonna_making_breakfastLauren’s 100 Day Tutelage has ended and she has decided to go on a 100 Day Anais Nin quest writing erotica. 

The buildup is always different. Time is a factor. The longer it takes before we see each other, the stronger the desire. But it’s not just the weeks apart that determine how much I need his touch, how much I crave to be kissed and hugged, or how eager I am to be fucked before my body has a chance to catch up. My longing grows with every fantasy sparked and shared. With every scenario hinted at and masturbated on. With every script in my head that gives me orgasms no real life partner can give me but Big’s imaginary and always available twin brother works them brilliantly. How desperate I am to see Big depends on how many earth shattering masturbation sessions I had.
And this time it was a lot.
“BB I’m of no use. I’ll be wasted from my trip.”
BB meant Baby Bee. But this little insect was not taking no for an answer.
“Can I come over AM? I’ll bring breakfast.”

So on a sunny day I arrive with a box of fresh eggs, French bread, Italian meat products and a selection of condoms that could cover a modest gangbang. When it comes to seeing Mister Big I always come prepared. As expected Big is clean and dressed despite just rolling jetlagged out of a plane. His overseas meeting was jammed into an in-and-out operation which illustrated his attitude to work. I fear I will one day lose him to a heart attack but I never say that. And by pushing he “takes advantage of me” when he clearly needs his rest, I am keeping him overworked.

Big is always quicker than me. Already back into his clothes, his hair nicely combed. Music and the smell of coffee escape the kitchen. I’m putting my hair back up although I ll probably look fucked despite. I join him in the kitchen.
“I’m concerned about you. How much you work. I don’t say it because it gives an excuse not to see me. But then I feel guilty asking for your time.”
“You have every right to ask for it.” Big responds. “How’s your business going?”
“Crushing it. I have a new program for the yoga. I want the same success for my books. I’m into Stoya for this.”
Big was responsible for introducing me to her porn on one of our first dates.
“I want to be the Stoya of literature. She has her own channel now. She’s totally independent.”
“Are you a member?” Big laughs.
“It’s a business expense. My accountant might think otherwise.”
Big shakes his head still laughing.
“You win BB. Compared to you my work will always be boring. And stressful.”

We sit down for our breakfast to conclude our 90 minute date. He has to leave for an appointment, I know that.
“I collected my things, but the cap from the lube is missing.” I say. “Can you get it? You were the last one to have it.”
“Just leave it,” he shrugs. “It’s not like it has any text on it right?”
“Something like: extra long lasting lubricant for hours of anal sex? I don’t think so. But I don’t want it found by the wrong people.”
“I’m sure it’s neutral,” he insists.
“Oh I would recognize a lube cap anytime. And you’re responsible. You were Chief Lubrication Officer.”
“I ll have a look. Are you still sore?”
“From behind you mean?”
He nods. “Because it hurt and we stopped.”
I shake my head. “That’s okay. I wanted you so bad I got greedy. I wanted you so much it hurt.”


I smelled liquor on his breath. Probably booze from the Wall Street bar he went to with an American colleague.
“There are two cute girls here.” He texted. “But my buddy is not getting my signals.”
“Are you turning me on?” I texted back. “It’s working.”
I was always frightened he would get an std. Yet when he hinted at sex with other women the turn on was undeniable. If he ever became trustworthy I would probably end it for reasons of irreconcilable boredom.
“It scares me, you and someone else. But I’m also turned on.” I Whatsapped when he was waiting at the gate. “Conflict of interest.”
He texted back: “I can handle that.”

I can handle that opened the door for me, I dropped my bags, threw myself in his arms and was welcomed by a warm tongue, strong arms, and dry fucked against the wall. I was groaning with every painful rub of his hard on to my jeans. We made it to the bedroom and undressed each other in what seemed like one yearning, one mutual desire. And then it stopped. It was the too-much-on-your plate-suddenly-not-hungry experience I never had with him. That feeling of wanting sex but for unknown reasons dropping out of it. It would still be okay but it would lack the most vibrant part.

We were naked and kissing and I didn’t know if I was going to tell him. I could already feel the disappointment that whatever I would do, I could not bring it back. Suddenly he ceased his passionate cuddling and made eye contact.
“What do you want?”
I let the maturity of his question sink in. I could feel it right down there. It was like I was tingled back alive, or maybe better pinched back live. What I was hearing went straight between my thighs. He gave a soft kiss on my cheek but his embrace stayed still.
“What do you really want? You can tell me.”
He knew the effect his voice had on me. And we had a shared memory of our first time anal sex where he had asked me the exact same thing: What do you really want?
His voice was controlled, sensual and slow.
“I want anal sex,” I sighed. ”Very much”
I nodded.
“I bought new lube. I’ll show you.”

Relieved I could hand this over to him, I showed him the lube and which condom we should use for this.
“I got it.” He laid down on his back. “Now come here.”
He directed me in a straddle pose over his face and I received his warm tongue. It was generous and sweet and with a magical combination of tongue, saliva, and his fingertips, he did what he could to prepare me. He asked me to give him a blowjob and I did. I still didn’t know who enjoyed it more, him or me. It was one of the many things that was always flawless with him. I always felt totally appreciated. Memories of other men were mixed here, awkward or tainted. Like I was the one enjoying sex and had to convince a partner. Like I needed to fix them. Mister Big didn’t require fixing.
“Here,” he said.
I looked up and he handed me the condom.
“Come sit.”
I was the woman on top and the moment it went in I collapsed in total pleasure.
“It’s been so long,” I said, suddenly emotional. He embraced me, hugged me close. Our French kisses mixed with my tears of joy and I pressed my knees to his ribs. He slid a fingertip up my ass and hugged me even closer. A rocking movement.
He took the bottle of lube. I sat up straight and we stared in each other’s eyes as he used the lube to stretch me from behind. “You like it double, don’t you?” I gave him a wide smile. He lifted me up.

His tip pressed my anus and I slowly lowered. He thrust up, just a little nudge, which resulted in an immediate sharp pain.
“Ow! Don’t move.” I begged. “I need to stay here.”
Whenever I dared to move it hurt. No matter how careful I was.
“It’s so painful. I can’t take it.”
We hugged intensely, faces buried in each other’s neck and my tears ran freely.
“I miss you so much sometimes.”

I was on hands and knees. His first thrust was just to get in, the second hit the cervix. The third and fourth made me shout out and again I forced him to slow down even though I had agreed to be “fucked doggy style, properly” as he put it. When he finally backed off it became sensual smooth fucking. The two, three deep thrusts I got after I cried out became a source of joy, transforming into hot waves of pleasure. A finger in my ass, probably a thumb. More pleasure, more shame. I dropped onto my forearms and squeezed my face into the pillow. Smothering my orgasm, not wanting to make too much noise. He came the moment I did.

We cuddled and kissed. Our afterplay was as always simple and loving. I remarked:
“I think we did everything two people can do to each other. In under 30 minutes.”
And Big answered: “The best recipe for a jetlag I could have wished for.”



Also available: erotic story The Saint


erotic story: The Saint

Michael Madsenby LS Harteveld

Lauren’s 100 Day Tutelage has ended and she has concluded she’ll go on a 100 Day Anais Nin quest writing erotica and diaries. Read how she came to this conclusion on the previous post and here on her yoga blog. Oh who am I kidding! Dive right in 😉

I have been sober for two weeks, praising the clarity of my mind and embracing my new identity as social saint. I am beyond suspicion when it comes to matters of good character, disciplined living, and other traits hailed in yoga teachers and other balanced professionals. I gave up drinking to gain full control over my mental powers and my old personality fell of me. Like lizard’s skin. My white winter coat, that I am still wearing these cold days this May, has become a white cloak of innocence. Not drinking has provided me with a VIP Saint card that will let me off the hook till eternity or until my first wine. Whichever one comes first.

I ring the top bell to the penthouse and stay in front of the camera even though I will have to leap to get the door. The buzzer always seems too short. His “hello?” always disturbed, as if he didn’t expect company. The hallway is quiet like an insurance office with succulent dark green plants and luscious ferns in brick planters with terra colored granules. The elevator is waiting for me on the ground floor and will take me to a home cooked dinner: steak and salad. He will have extra dark chocolate mousse from the caterer and will feed it to me before dinner and I ll say: “You know that’s cheating, right?”
And he’ll answer: “I do.”

For a while we switched to daylight. The dates became more frequent and never caused the withdrawal of our nightly encounters. Nor did they invoke the insatiable need in me to be held, to be comforted. Which had proven to be problematic since his after-sex service stopped at the door. Daytime sex was neither remembered for its epicness, nor for its disruptive backlash. It merely touched the surface of what we were capable of. They probably stopped because he too preferred agony – in his case a guilt ridden heart – to barely feeling anything. It was a price we were willing to pay.

A wave of nervousness flushes over me, mixed with excitement and arousal. A big smile, feeling so deliciously alive, still in awe over the purity of this. Wholeheartedly being in love is miraculous in its simplicity. You can’t believe you’ll ever settle again. Maybe on availability. Or justification. I ll settle for social shaming, or other forms of exclusion because I am the other woman. For that I will settle. But not on feeling anything less than this intoxicating thrill.

His tall physique blocks the door. I kiss the shaved cheek and receive the hug of the sturdy torso. It’s the familiarity between our bodies that always surprises me. I like role playing and sex games, and have done that with all of my boyfriends. But it’s the uncompromising love our bodies have for each other that makes this intoxicating. My body  lead me to this one, an unreliable married man. And it was the purest choice I ever made.

The friendly wrinkles near his bright blue eyes. The husky How are you? It’s all equally enchanting. Craving that first moment our lips touch and then controlling myself because I don’t want to admit how much I want him. Or how much more I want. Progressive and addictive as wine. Maybe that’s why I stopped drinking because no way I could sober up on this one. The deeply seductive Mister Big.

He’s wearing one of his pressed white shirts, top buttons loose, sleeves rolled up. I never understood how a man my age could be so potent and yet still have a full head of black hair. Where does he leave all that testosterone? He has moderate chest hair like a twenty year old. And I know what that looks like. But the cute eye wrinkles and sun tanned skin put him right up in his forties. I suspect he has never been more stunning than he is now. And he has never been more dangerous.
“So no wine I guess?”
He throws me a devilish smile before taking a sip from his red in an elegant oversized glass.

He prepares our meal without putting on an apron. Thank God. Not that I ever detected one here but with a business shirt like that and my broad experience with dating, part of me still expects he’ll get anal on moments like that. And not in a good way. Considering the flaws I neglected in other men, insecurities I healed, egos I mended and the gallons of unrepresentative outfits I tolerated, I forgive myself for being cautious. Those poor lovers probably had to put up with my quirks as well. Nothing as tiring as imperfect love. It’s the flawless ease of being together that gives him away. His true feelings. The ones he’ll rather choke on than share. I’m convinced never speaking of love is his way of staying loyal to his wife. A successful one, as far as I’m concerned.

The table is already set and he serves me a medium steak without asking how I have it.
“They turned out perfect.” He cuts through his own work. His is thicker and rare.
“Why did you stop drinking?”
“I got you to make my head spin.” I tease him. “And I like the saint status. I can do no wrong now. It’s like I won a zillion karma points. I could play out my darkest fantasies and still look at myself in the mirror.”
“How about your darkest fantasies while looking at yourself in the mirror?”
His time to smirk.
“There is only one way to find out,” I suggest. I play cool but this makes me nervous. Part of me still fears he’ll reject me. Before, during or after. And that’s not counting his regular 48 hour post-coital fall-out. “Maybe the bucket list? It’s been so long since we did one.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I thought the doctor one.”
“Okay.” He gulps down his wine. “Give me a minute.”
He leaves the candles burning, music on, and walks to the bedroom.
“What do I say then?” I suddenly panic.

We French kissed in the kitchen half an hour ago. And although I could feel myself getting turned on  making out on the countertop, legs spread, it didn’t count as real foreplay. But this does. That domineering voice telling me:
“You figure it out. It’s your fantasy.”
He walks calmly to the bedroom and closes the door lightly. Nerves flare up with an intensity of a thousand butterflies. Fuck. We’re gonna do this.

My mind races with options. A non-sexual ailment and leave it up to him to make it sexual? That’s not my fantasy. That’s a porn script.  He might as well have been a pizza delivery guy. I decide to take responsibility for the way we start off. He’ll take it from there, I know he will. But he will be more bold if I stand up for what I want. And not be shy or dodgy.  I will say I have a new boyfriend after a very long time of being single. Intercourse is painful and I have no idea what’s going on. I walk to the shut door of the familiar bedroom, with the man I’ve been seeing for 18 months yet with whom I feel it’s the first time every time. Knowing him seems to vaporize during the long periods we don’t see each other. I always start new and fresh, he remains a stranger. I’m suddenly scared but I knocked already. I don’t know if I can do this. And then he opens the door. He’s wearing his glasses. I’m so stunned I forget to introduce myself and weakly shake his hand.
“Please take a seat.”
The room is brightly lit. The bed is bare, with a white fitted sheet. He routinely goes through a set of questions, without showing any interest. He tells me to undress.

I take my pants off. He stays on his chair occupied with his notes. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen it all.” Bored. Arrogant. I can feel the thrill of this fantasy unfolding. Like I’m unwrapping a present knowing what’s in it, and yet I get more excited with every new layer of see through paper. I know I ll be wet when he examines me. I can protest and complain as much as I like without him thinking I want him to stop. We never have safe words. Our role play is light as a feather on the scale of S and M. Not having a safe word provides it with a little extra edge. His natural limit for inflicting pain comes before I’ve reached my desired level of it. I know that. Maybe we should have agreed on a code word for when I want more.

He looks over his glasses: “You can lie down now. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
A towel is waiting for me, laid out horizontally.

I stare in the mirror above me, my knees drop out, ankles crossed. I’m still wearing a red top. I can hear a pen scratching the paper. A dry cough. Absentminded noises. Maybe it’s the lack of alcohol but I get this heightened sense of awareness. I hear clearly, see, taste, smell. The tension in my body builds up in a way that becomes unbearable. The only choice is to let go but it’s like it’s wringed out of me. The face of the woman staring back, close to tears, reflecting an uneasy bunch of mixed emotions. I’m okay. I’m going to enjoy this. No shame. It will only rob me from pleasure. No shame.
“It can be a bit cold.”
He’s here. Where was I?
I let out a moan, startled by the coldness of his fingertips and my burning desire.
He spreads my labia. “Just try to relax as much as possible.”
A second moan. I close my eyes. No more mirror.

I answer questions about what I feel. I follow instructions. When to push, when to relax. When to brace myself. I don’t protest when he announces he will now do the back, and he goes through the whole script again. And I welcome the final phase. The build up to examining both. I squeak and can’t resist looking in the mirror. No matter how much shame forbids it. He leaves for the bathroom and I hear him wash his hands. I smile at the bashful woman. She’s blushing.

He returns, still drying his hands with a soft white towel and I give him a “That was fun!” glance. But he looks serious. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He puts the towel on the table and sits next to me. “I need to do one more examination.”
A shock of horniness immediately flows to my pussy. My mouth stays open. Stunned. How am I supposed to respond? He ignores my off-key response.
“You need to stay present for this. You can’t shut your eyes and you will have to look at me. Can you do that?”
Another rush. I nod. Yes.
He extensively walks me through what I can expect. Every detail, every calmly explained invasive act makes me shiver, desire, and fear in the most delicious way. A growing urge to drop out of the role of the victimized patient and share my enthusiasm. But I don’t.
I only smile once, but he rewards me with quick wink.
“I need your permission,” the serious voice closes everything he just told me. “It will be painful but if you can’t take it anymore, you have to tell me immediately.”
Blue eyes. Stern glasses.
“Okay.” I whisper coarsely.

Our session goes on for another hour before we lie in each other’s arms. Fully satisfied. I can finally tell him how amazing this was. I already got a taste of it with a playful lover, years ago.
“I never went for pap smears after that,” I say.
“Why not?” Big asks. “You would actually enjoy it.”
I explain my pragmatic view on illness and early diagnoses. Something we have opposing views on. But that’s not the only reason. “Until I played doctor with that boyfriend, I didn’t know how much I appreciate this. I love this. I really do.” I let past experiences and what we just did melt together. Like I’m accumulating treasures. “I think I love it more than life itself.”
He tightens his arms around me, and squeezes me even closer with a warm hugging leg.
“I know.”

Chapter 7. Face to Face

2004 denk ik confessions

Always try the project you don’t want to do. What you’re afraid of. That’s what makes you a great artist.
Marina Abramovic

I was two weeks into being sober, of praising the clarity of my mind and embracing my new identity as social saint. I was beyond suspicion, in particular when it came to matters of good character, disciplined living, and other traits hailed in yoga teachers and other balanced professionals alike. Not drinking was a status that oozed an almighty power because I had given up on drinking to gain full control of my mental powers. When I made that decision, my old personality fell of me, like lizard’s skin. And my white winter coat, which I was still wearing on the legendary cold days this May, became a white cloak of innocence. I had become a Saint. Not drinking had provided me with a VIP Saint card that would let me off the hook till eternity or until my first wine. Whichever one came first.

The signs of withdrawal from this addiction I didn’t know I had, were physical. I developed lower back pain. I had suffered it a decade ago and always assumed it had been healed by yogic therapy and patience. I had drunk little to no alcohol then so in retrospect I considered it may have cleared up because I upped on liquor.  Also, I wasn’t stable anymore in my yoga poses. I apologized in multiple classes for my apparent lack of skill. Apologizing as a teacher is a beginners mistake so now I had two things I could feel embarrassed about. Although these signs were disturbing, they only made me more determined. Apparently alcohol had played a key role in having a balanced, relaxed body. I didn’t need that kind of dependence.

My social life had been unharmed by non-drinking. I had dates that could, and until recently did, include alcohol two to four times a week. It was one of the things that made me so happy about not-drinking: I was allowed to keep the precious time with friends and family, and yet at the same time I would need less recovery time and be more alert on when I wanted to leave. I would become more productive publishing my eight books. For the yoga studio everything was up and running: I had launched a new program, set up my own YouTube channel, and had a year-long running theme for my weekly yoga blog. All elements were working together harmoniously, driving my business. It bought me time to focus on my other ambition: writing. Or more precisely: publishing. I knew I wanted to publish the books myself, for reasons of autonomy, but editing was taking me ages. And most of that time was spent avoiding it. I hated every minute I spent on it, and then I hated myself for not doing it, and before I knew it I was ten years into my writing “career”. This was my work cycle, which took anywhere between one day and one year: starting editing, hating it, dropping it, leaving it dropped and dreading to pick it up. Not-drinking had not provided me with any substantial progress in the area I needed it most. Except for one thing: my self-hatred had now become unbearable.

It was a Friday night. I had caught myself opting-out after the first 45 minutes of editing in a week. So imagine this: for a whole week I m beating myself up, plotting, bribing until finally I start editing, only to then drop out after 45 minutes and get all worked up about something that was really none of my business. I was so terribly disappointed with myself I didn’t mind leaving my desk and going out for some fresh air to the yoga studio, to do some light cleaning. At least I could make myself useful and the night wouldn’t be a total waste. And in that mood of self-destructive blaming, I suddenly saw what I had been doing…. That thing, what I got worked up about, was not because I was unhappy editing. It wasn’t aggression towards what I was doing. It was an attempt of another side of myself, to make her voice heard… it was the one who wrote all those lovely books I was editing; whose voice had written the very thing I still enjoyed rereading.
It was the writer in me.

From the looks of it, I m still writing. I have the yoga blog. I have the White Tigress blog. I have an offline project The Way of The Trickster, which was supposed to develop based on my White Tigress adventure. But suddenly, on my bicycle and close to tears, I realized those are not the real deal. They re not gratifying, they’re not me. As much as I hate editing my eight books, the reason I keep returning there is because I absolutely adore their content! But the idea of ever having to edit Trickster is horrific. Compared to my English erotica about me and Big, which is book 8, everything I have written this year online and offline, is bleak..

I cycled to the city and realized I hated myself and for all the wrong reasons. And had silenced the part of me I loved, the one who could write all those stories. I had banned her from the writing table because she could not be trusted with time, not with perseverance, and because she claimed days and nights until a story was finished. That was not the type of woman who was going to help getting books published. She was expelled.

And she was the one who had started drinking.

It hit me I never had reason to worry about my drinking until this year! I never needed to put much energy to moderate my alcohol consumption, and social life. I had been perfectly happy at home writing the night away. But now home was a yoga empire and creative writing had been marginalized to editing. It was no longer my home. I fled to town and wanted to forget, to be entertained. I didn’t see it, until the haze and escape of alcohol were removed..

It’s way past midnight. For the first time in six months I feel like I ve written something that matters, I’ve refound myself. I can’t see the whole picture yet, but here are my three preliminary conclusions:

  1. Abort my self-help book The Way of The Trickster, and never return to the genre again.
  2. Start writing autobiographical erotica again. Online. It’s the most authentic part of my writing, it’s the highest developed part, and it’s what sets me aside as an artist, as Marina would say it. Since I took the erotica down I feel safer, less exposed to judging eyes, but it’s blocking not just my development as a writer (to not have written any new stuff in months), but I also need the erotica to process my experiences with Mister Big. The role of writing erotica, in my sex life, is something I already talked about in the previous post.
  3. I need to do something about my publishing to make it more manageable. The plan was to publish the books individually. I even spent over €500 on their cover designs. And to publish them all in one hardcover afterwards. I m going to turn that around. First I m going to publish the hardcover, a collection of all eight with the Dutch title Het Boek Benjamin. I only have to oversee one Word document, one pdf, and order one test copy to check the lay-out. I could make it a limited edition. After four months, I take it down, and republish it as eight separate paperbacks, ready for the Holiday season.

My teary eyed bike ride taught me how important my erotica is to me. To process my sexual encounters and to develop myself as a writer. They’re the most difficult to write, and the most satisfying. I thought it was the wine I had been dependent on, but that was a coping mechanism. I had been dependent on my erotica. And when a more efficient part of me said to stop writing erotica for now, I let it happen. No wonder because it was the part I feared most, it made me vulnerable. “Yes! Let’s drop that!” I may have yelled back, relieved I could quit something so intimate.
And then I started drinking.

It’s such a classic. Alcohol and food and sex are all interrelated. If one is unavailable you resort to the other. I just never saw I was substituting, until now.

So expect new erotica of my latest adventure soon. I will call this erotica story “The Saint” and it will open with the same paragraph as this blog post.

Come say hi

I don’t know if I ll publish The Saint here on the White Tigress blog, on my Facebook page, or on my LS Harteveld website, so maybe you want to track all of them. You could also use Twitter .

My yogaclasses on YouTube

Chapter 6. The Lonely Pentecost of LS Harteveld



O-Ren: “You didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did you?”
B.: “You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.”

They say the Holidays are the hardest when you are the mistress. He’s with his family, you don’t hear from him, and your body still longs for his embrace but all cuddles go to those entitled to receive his love. Who have first right to claim his free time. It’s true. The holidays are the hardest. Especially with the memory of your date so fresh. In the past I could have blogged an erotic story to ease my suffering; a handmade afterglow by reliving the greatness of our sexual encounter. It helped me to process the intensity of it. The boundaries I gave up, willingly, consciously, in order to fully experience what he could give me: the fulfillment of my darkest fantasies. It is always after those sessions I yearn for him most, when his marginal communication is a hard landing after being intimate.

For a while we switched to smaller dates, and daylight. The dates became more frequent and never caused the same withdrawal as our nightly encounters. Nor did they invoke the insatiable need in me to be held, to be comforted. Encounters that were neither remembered for their pleasure, nor for their disruptive backlash. They merely scratched the surface of what we were capable of so perhaps it was no wonder they stopped. We never talked about it, but I imagine he too preferred the agony of a guilt ridden heart, to feeling barely anything. I know I did. A message with an emoticon was the last thing I heard from him, before he dropped out of conversation.
“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” I had asked.
The silence was deafening.

I started writing erotica about him, as a medicine for those mornings, nights and absent minded work-hours after. I had experience writing erotica but mostly fiction, although I sometimes used real lovers and myself as characters. For non-fiction, I blogged in a diary format. It contained sex but was never that graphic and allowed for enough space to have a real relationship. At least that’s what I told myself. In retrospect I needed the diaries to mold a lover into someone more “deserving” of my adoration. I compensated for everything he wasn’t and covered up for things I didn’t like. The diaries carved out with words someone I could unconditionally love. And to complete my betrayal I omitted the times a fantasy was fulfilled, simply because I was not ready to share them with the world. I left the best things out.

But with Big everything was different. I never wanted to write about sex with him. I never even wanted to have sex. I never set the intention: “Hey, let’s go have the best sex of my life with a married man with children, and then write about it.” I didn’t do that. But I have been entirely intentional going on a sexual odyssee when I gave up a relationship at 34. I went to a sexual therapist to work through my fears and started dating for the first time in my adult life. Finding the perfect lover was my holy grail. And I pursued it with the same vigor other women go after babies or husband material. From that perspective, when my holy grail turned out to be married with kids, of course I was not going to veto it. Especially not on moral grounds because morality was of no use where I wanted him to go. This brazen, taken, cunning man was the key to every fantasy I cherished. Eight years since I started my quest; I had found him.

Finding him turned out to be just the beginning. I wearily tested the waters, and ended up naked and doing things a savvy business woman could have made good money of. I planned our first time real sex, and was baffled by his sexual stamina. Over, and over, and over. I was in my period. How many men in their 40s have the energy to wear you out on days like that? He did. Every date I thought I knew what would happen, he surprised me taking it further. I can’t say he “pushed” me, it wasn’t anything like that. It were things he or I had brought up in conversation, and I pictured him a bucket list. A sexual menu I hoped he could prepare and serve. If anyone had been pushy it was me as I had put him under pressure most men would find intimidating. Not him. And since all fantasies required him to be in charge, it was a miracle he always effortlessly regained control and positioned himself as the one in charge. I was cleared from all responsibility.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked as he sent me out only to re-enter his “doctor’s office”.
“You figure it out,” he answered in a domineering voice. “It’s your fantasy.”
Had he hesitated, the session would have started off on the wrong foot. I would not have trusted him with the role, and would have been weary for moments I had to cue him what I wanted. That one line You figure it out indicated that he was not my buddy or my confidant. He was now a stranger, one step from being a doctor. He shut me off, because he knew distance was the key ingredient of the fantasy.
And it worked. Brilliantly.

With Big everything I learned about men – they’re not always hard and entitled to have their own insecurities- didn’t apply. Someone joked I was dating a Porn King, and that nailed the kind of performance he would deliver: an outstanding one. But it also indicated he was not going to be there for me after. I would be alone. The insecurities that creep up on every woman after having sex – Does he love me? Does he love me enough? Why isn’t he here?- were amplified because the sex had been more intense than ever. As was his absence. I needed him more than any man, and he was available the least.
And that’s when the erotica came in.

Three months into our affair I started writing. We had had our months of drama. Every time we had sex it escalated into a break-up, with me needing him, and him withdrawing. But since he was obviously the dream partner I had been waiting for eight years and because he refused to be manipulated by me, our break-ups were neither permanent nor did they solve anything. They were just annoying. It was like a power struggle I knew I could never win. And losing was the best case scenario. Had I found a way to win, I would have ruined our sexual game because I would have taken his power away.
So instead of trying to get him to do what I wanted, I started writing. For one year I wrote our most memorable sessions to erotic stories, on my LS Harteveld blog. Then 2016 came, and I stopped. I would focus on my books, took all erotica and all diaries down, and emptied the blog of anything I wanted to print.

It wasn’t just because I was creating real books; it was also because I had become uneasy with the material being public. Where public meant: not being paid for 😉  In February I had a coming out. My LS Harteveld readers now knew the name of my yoga studio, and my yoga students knew my pen name. The two worlds had merged. Which was a good thing, but I didn’t need transcripts of ground breaking sexual sessions available online for free. Not anymore.
But in my attempt to Go Pro clearing out my blog, I forgot writing erotica online had served a purpose: to be there for me when I needed to process some pretty intense stuff. It was my way to sieve out all the good, let go of all bad, and to work through the fears that had come up. I wrote the best erotica I ever laid eyes on – they’ll be published in  July in a book called Big – and the public eye prohibited me to let it get to me. My blog kept me from breaking down.

I stopped writing erotica and this new blog, the 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai, has already served its purpose as a sexual wellness adventure. I wasn’t supposed to return here. Processing everything that happened after he said You figure it out, was an offline job. The sweet memories of our role play would stay inside, mixed with all the fears, the self-doubt, and destructive emotional mayhem it brought up. I would grow stronger from dealing with it on my own. Unconsciously, I had probably taken down the blog because I wanted to step up my game. Because I was ready.

In the words of Kill Bill, the movie that inspired the title of this blog and every Chapter:
“You didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did you?”
“You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.”

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