Joan Barbara Travers Simon (Ph.D, Ph.D.). Teacher, researcher, novelist, editor, Ph.D. coach and more.
As an author, I write adult-rated fiction for freethinkers. Explosive (multicultural) literary fiction with alpha protagonists locked in an erotic-psychological Kampf. Raw, funny, philosophical. Read my work (e.g. Verses Nature) and make your own mind up.
I can also turn the heat level down. Long Time Walk On Water: 'a captivating multicultural historical novel with its splash of something quite unique, its touch of romance, reggae style, will win your heart forever.'
I've been called many names: a wordsmith par excellence. A madwoman and literary terrorist. A magician. A truly fearless writer. I rather like all of these. I've also been called a woman with a dick. I like that one even more.
As a scholar, I run an education blog for the general public. My special interest: the multilingual literacy development of young learners at home and school. Very little jargon. Lots of good ideas/data for free.
I love learning, asking questions, breaking the rules and giving you what you won't get anywhere else.
More about me on my website:
Against her better judgement. She sent him a message. A harmless one: she was having lunch with the children and would plough her way through some work in the afternoon.
She was hoping
he would invite her to come over. She was hoping and yet it was what she feared the most.
She waited… but in the end she brought the girls back to school and drove home. Yes. It was better that way.
Her phone rang.
He said he had the afternoon free and thought she meant she was spending the afternoon with the children.
So, she’s not?
So, she’s at home?
He did not ask her to come.
Can… can I come? she almost whispered.
I’m on my way.
She sat in her room, trying to resist the temptation to write to him, to contact him. She opened one, two bottles of wine and downed them. She wanted to live the feeling of being in love; that which makes the world go round. She wanted to love him; his freedom, his pride, this glorious, threatening man she orbited round as though warming up to a dare. She wanted to contaminate herself with the freedom he accorded, knew she was of a similar spirit, yet she fell short, guilt like a nail pushing up through her shoe.
Her attention kept being drawn to the place her thighs met. She couldn’t breathe. Squeezed her hand to that troublesome place. Felt it throb. Brought her fingers to her nose… sighed.
She fucked her mattress every night she found herself alone. Fucked the walls, the door edge, the table corner, the chair. Anything that was hard enough. Or near enough.
Yeah I’ve slept with a man. Course I have. In my younger days. Was okay, but I prefer women. I’ve had threesomes and group sex. I’ve shared a girl with a mate, or my wife with a girlfriend. There were seven of us at it once. If two men are going to share a woman they’ll have to like each other not only cos of the trust but also cos there’s bound to be some form of physical contact between the two. Doesn’t mean you’re gay, though. And a woman, I reckon she’ll have to have some latent lesbian tendencies if she’ll sleep with another woman. Sometimes they say they do, and that they will, but they’re just lying. Women lie. Men lie. That’s life.
One of my wives wanted to try a threesome with another woman but I couldn’t find anyone who’d fit the bill so in the end I took her on holiday to North Africa and we paid a beautiful whore to go with the two of us. First she took us to a bar. Fair enough, we thought. But then she dragged us to another one and another one. And another one… it got to 3 in the morning and I was plastered, and my wife tired, which was probably what the crafty bitch was after anyway, so we paid her and told her to go home. She had the cheek to get greedy: what do you think this is, she shouted at the money we’d given her. I could’ve had a whole load of other clients during this time instead of wasting my time in bars with you two! Well, if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s when a person gets ungrateful. Now you listen to me, you greedy conniving bitch, you’re the one who dragged us off into all these bars so take your money and fuck off! That’s the way you have to speak to these people. Think all Europeans are sitting ducks? Think again. Well, she got the message and backed off. So I didn’t manage to arrange this thing for my wife, who is now my ex-ex-wife, but that’s another story. She might’ve had her experiences in that direction in the meantime. Or maybe she too was just lying all along.
I am as I am
I’m made that way
If I desire to laugh
Then I’ll laugh till I sway
I love those who love me
Though it’s no fault of mine
If it’s not the same person
I love every time
I am as I am
I’m made that way
What more do you want
What more must I say?
I love women. I love you. And envy you. And desire you. And take you. I love the taste of you. The feel of you. The sound of you. The thought of you. After 3000 women, I stopped counting… I am Tatar Tatar is my name
I haven’t got the looks of André Breton. I’m not a cultural luminary and no way can I do flashy maths like Benoît Mandelbrot. So what? I’m still the one you’re listening to.
There are three of us altogether. My father’s first wife dies of tuberculosis and left him with a son. My mother’s first husband died and left her with a son. My mother’s first husband designed aeroplanes. Died whilst testing one. Because he wasn’t in service that particular Sunday, my mother never received a widower’s pension. She was a real beauty, a hairdresser, from an Alsatian village I won’t name as it’s none of your business. My father was a hairdresser from Strasbourg, looking for a new wife who was also a hairdresser so they could set up a business together. Someone who knew them both arranged the meeting. He drove up to take a look at her. They got married and made me.
Some people think I’m stuck up. Think I think I’m something special. Know what? I am. I’ll leave the rest of you to be ordinary.
I’m here to give pleasure
Not a thing may I change
My heels are too high
My stature too arched
My breasts way too tough
Round my eyes are too parched
But then anyhow
What´s it to you, all of these?
I am as I am
I please whom I please
What is it to you
What has happened to me
Yes, I did love someone
Yes, this someone loved me
As young kids love each other
How to love one another
And that with such glee…
Hang on. Breasts, I hear you say? Who’s this about, then? Her? Them? Me? Wrong on all counts? You decide. Back we come again to that age-old human dilemma: freedom. To continue. To walk away. What’s yours gonna be?
Ok. So you’re that type. Let’s say, at least you think you are. It’d interest me to know if you’re still so sure by the time we’re through.
Me? Had my first cunnilingus when I was three. The daughter of the shopkeeper who owned the Sadna, a chain store like co-op. She’d come to my place after nursery school cos my mum had gone to work and she knew I’d be alone. We’d get undressed and go to bed and have oral sex. Do a real 69. I’d lick her pussy and she’d suck my dick. That’s the honest truth.
Why all of these questions
I`m here but to please you
Not a thing may I change
Nor do I feel the need to.
Freedom. Think you’re free to turn away? You’ll be back. You’ll be back and you can choose, but only from among the choices I permit. There’s a whole lot more I could tell you. Will tell you. I can fill your lifetime with my stories.