Golden Boy to Golden Dreams

November 8, 2009 Adora, Diary 2 Comments

Hello my delicious interwebs.

I hope you’re thoroughly enjoying sexandthe405.com. I’m sure you are. How can anyone not just love sinking their teeth into one of AV Flox’s salacious creations?

In my last diary entry, I mentioned that I’ve recently been reacquainted with the possibility of “falling in ridiculous mountain-moving spellbinding love, and not with danger, but with innocence.” I haven’t been able to expound too greatly on the subject with words, but I feel I’m at a point where I’d like to dissect and share how my rebirth came to pass. It happened during my recent leave of absence from Los Angeles, which was both heartbreaking and groundbreaking.

It all began when I met Christian. He possessed the first new set of hungry, eager, and irresistible eyes to enter my realm fresh off the heels of the Post-Chance Era

We met on a rainy night in May. The streets were so wet that all their colors slipped into the sky, along with my relentless shades of purple. When Christian opened the door everything changed. The shape of my heart finally made sense again, and even the darkest parts of the city looked yellow. 

It was a simple scenario of boy meets girl. Christian was younger than me, not by enough years for either one of us to feel strangely about our courtship, but just enough that he was not the slightest bit romantically jaded–such a refreshing treat. (My darling AV Flox would refer to him as “a fetus.”)

The carnal attraction between us was palpable. Never in my life have I been as aroused mentally and physically by a man, while fully clothed and rolling under the covers like a little kid. He was so present–more present that I have ever been. And he made me moan louder than any Chance encounter or jilted ex-lovers ever had.

Christian and I were very different people, but at some point in time we were of the same place, a safe harbor of calm blue waters, where in an instant a tidal wave of heated passion would pulverize all social graces. I used to think he saw me as some dark eccentric Hollywood heroine. To me, he was a golden boy sent from my guardian angel to save me from my old ways. Christian helped me remember a part of myself that had been lost for many years. He opened a gateway that exposed a soft vulnerable side I no longer thought I had. It was terrifying and exhilarating. It made complete sense, and it was absurd.  For lack of a better phrase, it was sweet surrender.

The stories I shared with him about my time in different cities, especially Los Angeles always sent his head spinning. He would say things like:

“What do you mean there were multiple orgies going on in the next room, while you were signing contracts?!” 

And…

“So after you said that you wouldn’t have a threesome with the guy, he refused to finance the project?  That’s ridiculous!”

One night while we were driving along the coast after an ideal day of music, food, and dancing, he grabbed my hand and looked at me with the purest, simplest, most gorgeous expression. I pulled over to the side of the road, and we started undressing each other, as the stars gleamed above us and the waves crashed next to us.

In some other little ditty, we were Jack and Diane. We were Benny and Joon. We were Harry and Sally. But in this world, we were two people on different journeys.

He is off sailing the seven seas becoming a man. And I am back in Los Angeles, finishing the business I started when all my dreams were still in front of me. I don’t know if I’d have the gusto to do so had I not met Christian, the one who made everything shiny and new again with his gentle hands, boyish enthusiasm, and strong Midwestern arms and shoulders. Thanks to him, I reached down into my bag of tricks and found some forgotten dreams, which I’m now determined more than ever to turn into gold.

Loving Long and Hard in Los Angeles

November 3, 2009 Adora, Diary 2 Comments

My name is Adora Flame.  I am here to share with you my dear Internets, my mischievous little voyeurs of all that burns deep within the hearts of feline spirits and between my divinely mouthwatering thighs, the sins, wins, losses, and lessons learned from loving long and hard in Los Angeles.

My first LA love, the angry yet lonely young man that he was, married someone else three months after we parted ways for the umpteenth time.  After a love triangle with his roommate, five years of stormy break-ups and earth-shattering make-ups, three cities and a trillion frequent flier miles, oceans of passion, rivers of ecstasy, 365 favorite positions of the day, and multiple underground sex clubs, my ex (the ex of all exes) ran into the arms of another woman, who had just broken up with her long-term partner two months prior to our split.

I was too shocked to feel resentment when I heard the news.  I was too certain we had always been doomed from the start to feel anything at all when he and his wife divorced a year later.  In the interim, I went through men like tissues.  If there was an inexplicably endearing and flagrantly dangerous man in sight, odds are he was glued to my side for three months, the general duration of the courting period, which is fun and light before someone gets frightened and runs for the hills.

Then one night I met Chance.  He was a rock star – a beacon of hope to any romantic young woman in search of a soldier with grace and heart, a cowboy with poetry, and a majesty to all lost boys.  I had been collecting his albums since I was in high school.

Arpeggios punched and vibrated the walls inside my favorite Sunday night venue, as the man in question lit my cigarette, and told me we’d change the world together.

“You’re one smart motherfucker, aren’t you,” he said as more of a declaration than a question.

“Yes, yes I am.”

It was at that one moment, and not one second sooner that Chance had me. He knew I intellectualized every encounter and exchange with relentless skepticism. He knew glitter and gold failed to stimulate my senses and only sharpened my defenses.  He was attractive, but not gorgeous.  He was charming, yet sincere.  He was powerful, and he was insane.  He ruled the world, but he was alone. He was a tragic king, and he had the passion and balls of an amphetamine-induced Shakespearean superhero on Cialis. He had me at “smart motherfucker.”

By our third 48-hour long date, we were already talking about what we’d name our first child.

“Jack,” he said. “I like the name Jack.”

Then came the three B’s – the booze, the babes, and the bourgeoisie.  I thought I could handle it, and perhaps I could have.  However, I convinced myself I was incapable of being the iron-willed matriarch my girlfriends in college said I was.  Because behind all my blazing bravado, I am not made of iron. I talk hard and I play strong, but everything on the inside is soft.

I didn’t think I could ever live in his world without feeling like I was sacrificing who I really was.  I couldn’t be a rock star’s lover because I couldn’t play second fiddle – not to his fame, not to his fortune, and not to the countless groupies who wanted a piece of him.  He knew all of this, but then one night, as we lied down wrapped in each other’s arms on the floor of his recording studio, he asked me to try.  And so I did.

A few weeks later, after having a colossal argument over a horrible misunderstanding, we made plans to go to his ranch in Montana the next day.  That evening, he was arrested.  He was arrested and his handlers wouldn’t let anyone, even me, near him for weeks.  He went to jail for  three months, and then moved to New York to be closer to the east coast fashion mogul he had been seeing before he went to the big house.  (Yes, he was seeing her the same time he was seeing me.  No, I didn’t know about her.  Yes, I should have seen it coming. No…I didn’t.)

I had a fulfilling and free-loving life in Los Angeles before I encountered Chance, because I didn’t know what it was to be in love and feel that in spite of all the chaos, maybe just maybe love could conquer all.  All my time in LA after that experience was the “Post Chance Era.”  I didn’t date anyone for a year.  Eventually, I left LA for outside reasons, only to be beckoned back six months later.

While I was gone, I became reacquainted with the possibility of falling in ridiculous mountain-moving spellbinding love, and not with danger, but with innocence.  It’s a beautiful dream that I don’t want to lose.

Now that I’m back in the City of Angeles, I have decided that I’m not leaving without soaking up this newfound lease on passion and romance with each and every pore and loin I possess.

Please join me on this journey. It’s going to be the joy ride of my life.

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Sex and the 405 is what your newspaper would look like if it had a sex section.

Here you’ll find news about the latest research being conducted to figure out what drives desire, passion, and other sex habits; reviews of sex toys, porn and other sexy things; coverage of the latest sex-related news that have our mainstream media's panties up in a bunch; human interest pieces about sex and desire; interviews with people who love sex, or hate sex, or work in sex, or work to enable you to have better sex; opinion pieces that relate to sex and society; and the sex-related side of celebrity gossip. More...