The GodMother

My number one goal in life is to teach the unteachable, and guide the misguided. There are those who have been counted out for one reason or another, whether it be their financial, demographical, racial or educational background. These are the individuals that I aspire to teach because for some reason, I could’ve once been in their shoes. Untrainable, unreachable and definitely a lost cause by various definitions. The greatest part of my story is that I was fortunate enough to have a handful of people who believed in me. They believed so much, that I had no choice but to believe them also.

The first person outside of my family to see something in me was my first grade teacher, Mrs. Preggler. Unfortunately I wasn’t a shining star in her classroom or academically with my stellar grades. No, I was the outcast on her playground who taught all of her students about sex. I can still recall that day I stood in the middle of the playground, educating a bunch of elementary students that they were actually brought into this world because their mommy and daddy had sex. There wasn’t any stork, birds or bees. Their mom laid on her back, and their dated inserted his penis into her vagina. That was how they came into this world or (ended up on the playground that day). That was my explicit conversation to a group of bewildered kids.

Talk about the horror on their first grade faces when I exposed their parents’ truths, and the horror on my first grade teacher’s face when she eventually had to sit me down and tell me she would have to tell my mom. The horror came full circle when I burst into tears, and informed my teacher there was no way in hell she could tell a Jamaican mother that her child got in trouble in school. Much less the contents of the trouble. I assured my teacher I would come back to school with my behind split in half if she told my mother.

That was the first time I had someone believe in me. She believed in my truth, and I’m pretty sure that first grade teacher took my secret to her grave. From that moment, my destiny of leading and mentoring others became my purpose. My first grade teacher mentored me about sex and made me promise to never talk about sex on her playground again. I promised and learned my lesson. Teaching my peers about sex in exchange for my behind was nota question at this point. Those little white babes would’ve had to learn about sex on someone else’s watch.

Fast forward more than two decades later, my purpose is to not only teach and mentor others about adult topics, but how to become a great human. I’ve realized in 2018, we may need a refresher course of what it means to be a great human now more than ever. Through my education and experience, I’ve had no choice but to be a greater, stronger, yet ethical person and I love to share what I’ve learned with others. If I didn’t share what I’ve learned, I believe I would be doing those inspiring individuals that believed in me a great disservice.


Rules for the Exes

Lose contact if there’s still feelings or unfinished business there. 

The End…
Lol, that would be so rude to just leave you like that right? Probably. But nonetheless, that sums it up. If you and your ex are playing “who’s better off”, then stay away. Focus on the present, because the past doesn’t have much for you right now. 

What else can I say?  Tons of water and good eyeliner? That’s a good segway. 

So yes. God is good. The universe is in my favor…continue being Prayer Warriors. 
Trump is our President (Sigh).



Real Friends Are Not for Sale!

Hello 2017.

How are you? I’ve been waiting on you for the last few months now. Since you’ve finally arrived, a billion hours later (like a true Jamaican) I think it’s time we had a talk….

We’re going to behave this year okay? None of that craziness… on either end. You’re gonna keep your a** in order. No losing your marbles. No, wondering if stripping is an option to keep Sallie Mae off your back. No, picking fights for no good reason. We’re going to be a great humanitarian this year. We’re going to stay away from excessive cheesecake binging, and more importantly: remember that real friends are not for sale!!

I thought about adding a smooth transition, but forget that…this is way to pertinent: You can’t buy real friends. Period.

You may be wondering, where is this coming from? What did I miss? What are real friends??

 Sometimes it isn’t nessciarly what we missed, its what haven’t we been paying attention to. Pay attention to the real people in your life. The ones that can’t be bought. The friends that won’t only come over to finish your wine, but they’ll actually cook you dinner while they drink it. A real friend will go in your fridge, complain of the little options you have, then make a sandwich and possibly share some with you. 

A real friend won’t wait until you’re at your worse to ask if you’re okay. That’s the epitomy of real friend, and the mall buddy you want to roll with. I see “faux” friends way too often. They come in shopping together, asking if this shirt looks nice. The fake friend says, “Yes” when it looks horrible. Or, “No, take that off,” when it really looks amazing on their friend (that really eats me up inside).

Your real friend will call you out on that new low life jerk you’re dating, yet help you stalk his social media page at the same damn time. Your real friend should almost be a free therapist: there’s an unwritten confidentiality waiver floating around, and you can tell them all of the crazy thoughts that come to mind without fearing backlash. That’s a friendship that can’t be bought, and shouldn’t be compromised. 

So do yourself a favor: Welcome in 2017 with great times, better underwear and real friends. Think of this change as a store purchase return policy. You have thirty days to return that hideous little black dress, and that fake friend that talked you into buying it. 
Sincerely Your Friend,


Jamaican Stew Chicken 

This is for my client, that requested a stew chicken recipe. 

Here you go ; )

-Chicken (10 pieces. Your choice)

-Vinegar or lemon juice (to cleanse)



 Seasoning salt

Haberno (Scotch bonnet pepper 1-2)





Jamaican Choice meat & pultry seasoning 

Black Pepper

Pimento (optional)




1 potato

*insert. I wish I had measurements but I don’t roll that way. I just freestyle. đŸ’đŸŸ


Remove all excess fat, and cleanse with 2/3 water, 1/3 lemon juice or vinegar. Rinse well. Combine all seasonings. Not too heavy on the browning. Not too brown stew chicken (unless you like it really dark 😊).

Next…let it marinate. For at least an hour. If you can. 

Get frying pan. Deep enough to build up some juices. I’m still talking about chicken by the way. Just for the record. 

Okay, so next is preheating your pot, with oil. Coconut, vegetable, or olive oil. Really your choice honey. Whatever’s in your pantry. Get the pan well hot (Jamaican accent just slipped. I hope you caught it. )

Take your frying fork and marinate chicken one last time before getting ready to fry. Remove all onion, potato and carrot pieces before frying. Save those vegetables for stewing. 

Once your pot is well heated, prepare to fry chicken on all sides building a nice brown. You kind of want to fry your chicken lightly all the way through. Fry it enough to be able to taste a small piece to know when it’s time to stew. 🙂

This is the fun part and time to have a minute to relax soon. (Climax, are you keeping up?)

Get your stewing pot ready, preferably the one you fried in (hence frying in one deep enough to build juices). You want those juices… For the chicken. Continue…

Turn your stove to a medium heat. Don’t forget those carrot, scallion and onion pieces. They’re going in the stew too. 


Add chicken. Vegetables. Ketchup and a bit of sugar. Not too much. Just a bit to taste. Also optional. 

Let it cook down on a medium high heat for at least 25-30 minutes. Half way through, turn the stove down….very important. 

So yes, at this point your grain and veggie should be about too. Rice and peas and cabbage pair nicely too. 

Probably a cocktail fruit drink on the side. And yes…,Let me know how it goes. I’d love to hear. 🙂

Just A Sports Bra

The last few days have been lazy ones. I don’t know what it is, but I’m hoping it’s a combination of the weather and all of these comfort meals. The gym’s been on the back burner. So has writing. So is fashion. So is sex. (Lord forgive me.) Now that I visually see the words, it seems like a bit of the “d” word is lurking around. Not dick, the other one. Depression… 

I don’t know what it is, but I feel like that woman in the horrible anti-depression commercial just staring out the window. Damn I dislike admitting that. I’m pretty sure depression rates amongst others increase during the holiday season. The holidays should be such a joyous time of year, right? Wrong, especially when you work in retail. Long hours, long shifts and longer emotions.

 The most important part of the work week is to not wear those emotions on your sleeve, especially when 99.9% of your job is to set an example for your staff. Oh, I’m setting alright. As much as possible. Doubling up on SPANX, makeup setting spray and Robert Cavalli’s last fragrance he physically put his touch on. I’m setting… I promise I’m setting. So now that I’m actually looking back on the past several weeks, maybe I’m not entirely depressed. Just extremely mentally and physically exhausted. I have no energy or drive to fashion, fuck or write about either. (The Lord knows my ways better than I do I’m sure.)

What has been saving me the last few weeks? My BCBGMAXAZRIA faux leather skirt. Pairing this skirt with my dominatrix/bondage bras, has been my fashion pick-me-up. Whenever I grab that black vixen skirt, you better believe a bad b*tch is coming as well. This faux leather or a piece like it, is one of many I recommend every woman keep in her closet. You know, that piece of clothing or accessory you have to pull out whenever you want to remind people you’re not to be taken lightly? Yes, I suggest owning a few ensembles dolls. 

Ladies if you need a new piece of clothing or wardrobe that exudes the message, “This is a woman that shouldn’t be taken lightly” (or I just came off the runway), please contact me. 

Every woman should own a “I am not your b*tch today” outfit. 

So on the days you just want to lounge around in just a sports bra, it will make much more sense and feel well deserved. We may click around in heels and a push-up bra all week by professional standards, that no one really wants to admit: is bat-shit draining. In essence, there’s nothing wrong with ‘just a sports bra day. We’re entitled and allowed to claim a”recharge” day. Let those twins relax ladies. They work damn hard. 👯


Tamara Styles💄

Confessions of a Mistress 

Now that I have your attention: Was I a mistress? Yes.

Did I like it? No. There’s so many better things to be in life. Like a teacher. Or pharmacist. A notebook even.  But a mistress? Hardly. It became something I was involved in, and draining is an understatement. 

I’m sorry wives but I’ve been in your shoes before, so I know how uncomfortable this topic can be. See, some men play the game very well. Others? They aren’t really cut out to play at all. They’re better at sitting on the sidelines…

August 2016

“Do you have a lighter?” I heard a voice mutter under his breath. 

I looked up in disgust with my hands preoccupied, way too engaged and upset in my world to answer. Then the voice echoed again: 

“Do you have a lighter?” My eyes connected with his in some weird synergetic kind of way. Despite my present demeanor and negative disposition from losing my grandmother, I mustered up just enough vocal chords to reply. 


Is this guy fucking serious? Questioning me like I have a Google toolbar tattooed across my forehead. I’m at my Grandmother’s repast, I don’t feel like talking. To anyone. Yet, something came over me. I’m still not sure if it was the good or the evil side, and I realized this guy didn’t actually want a lighter. He wanted my attention. Oh? Attention? Okay. 

Eventually , I gave it to him.
Now that I replay the moments in my head, everything around us was volcanic from the moment we met. Slow brewing, like a grade A… Candle. I’ll just say candle… Marijuana scented to be exact. 

This candle of a man wasn’t my usual scent or flavor to be quite honest. I much prefer a different scent of candle, and he wasn’t it. Maybe Irish or Russian even… But Jamaican? NO. I eventually obliged.. Why not give it a try?

Sometimes we forget dating isn’t like a new pair of shoes that we can just try on and place back on the shelf if we’re not into it. I thought this candle or shoe, whichever analogy you choose would be much more memorable. I’ve spent weeks formulating this entry; replaying all of the hurt and so-called tears I shed. 

Now, I can barely remember what the hell I was so head over heels over….

So I know you’re wondering, how did I let myself become a mistress? When you’re over 25, you should no longer aspire to live life as only a mistress, right? 

This was the case for me at least. I didn’t want to be a mistress, and I didn’t want a relationship. I just wanted the perks of an awesome friend while dealing with the loss of my grandmother. As I write this post, I realize how much bullshit the situation was. What the hell was I thinking?? Months and feelings in, I became a mistress really in it for the sex and financial leg up. I’m not ashamed to admit, I received both. I didn’t know I could squirt before this experience. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling orgasmic pleasures that soak the bed sheets honestly.

He was cute, with a bit of financial support and could make me orgasm, but is that enough juice to be perfectly okay with being someone’s mistress? For some, maybe. For me, hell no! So why in the name of the heavens would I put myself through such an ordeal of living life as one?

Simple. I didn’t know I was a mistress. Again, some men play the game well. Others should only watch from the sidelines. He played the game well enough until I realized maybe he’s better just watching from the sidelines.

I was a mistress because I was dealing with someone that had to be married for immigration reasons. I’m not in a situation to marry anyone solely for their golden ticket into the US. He needed to be a US citizen, and someone could make that happen. I couldn’t do that, and I beat myself up because of my past. I thought, “It’s my fault I am a mistress. I shouldn’t have been previously married. If I wasn’t married, he would marry me. He’s only marrying her for his legal citizenship.”

Or so I thought. Later I learned he was marrying her because he actually loved her. It didn’t matter how many other dicks she deep throated while cheating on him. It didn’t matter that I knew I could give him everything he ever needed, mentally and physically. It didn’t matter. The only thing that seemed to matter is that the man I cared about was engaged, and marrying someone else that he loved to stay in the country. That someone he loved, wasn’t me. Damn was I foolish!

I cried, moaned and groaned over one of the dumbest situations of my life. I cared about an illegal immigrant that cared more about his legal status. 

Could I blame him? Trump has an opportunity to win this election for Christ sakes. Obviously, I needed to understand the bigger picture at hand. What is affection compared to legal citizenship in the US right? No one wants to be on the ther other side of that wall that Trump is proposing to build. Not even me. I like having options…

So I was a mistress, for what I’m sure is the last time in my life. I was involved with a man that had to be married as soon as possible, and I couldn’t help. So yes. I. Was. A. Mistress. An adequately financed, sexually satisfied mistress. I don’t know what I cried over more: the dick or the money. 

I shed a tear or two. I will admit that. Having moved on in such a positive light that would make any father proud, I’m not ashamed to admit: I was having sex with someone else’s fiancĂ©. He played the game well. But not better than me…

When you move onto an educated college professor that would bend over backwards to please you and make you happy, it makes you appreciate your former mistress self. Someone I pray to never be again. Not in this lifetime at least. 

Diamond Earrings

Dear Whom It May Concern:

I didn’t forget about your need to read, I’m still here in the midst of life hanging on for more than dear life. Today had a few shitty hours, but that’s all I’ll give the shit credit for; a few shitty moments. I wont let the shit take over my day. Shit shouldn’t have that much power anymore. I’m learning to let that shit go…

“Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.” – Muhammad Ali

The great champ died last night, rest his soul. Life can be so unknown, you know? One minute you close your eyes for bed, another minute you wake up and learn Muhammad Ali passed away during your slumber. Death has been so rampant, I’m almost completely numb to it. I still cant believe he died, but on the other hand I can’t believe he lived so long. Life is totally unpredictable and you simply can’t put a price tag on it. Life can’t be bought. Not an hour, not a minute, not a day. You cannot buy more time no matter how wealthy or successful you are. There’s nothing you can do to control destiny, but you can make the best of what your destiny is. Instead of going on and on about death and life and all of that depressing shit in between, let’s learn to leave the shit where it needs to be. Down in the shitter.

Around two hours into my work shift, I realized one of my diamond earrings was no longer in  my ear. You can picture my distraught, gasping for air, retracing a few steps, but instantly coming to the realization that its probably gone for good. Between home, the car, the parking lot and walking around my store, the countless number of places it could’ve been quickly broke my heart. This pair of diamond cluster diamond earrings were purchased for me by my ex-boyfriend along with an insurance policy, and guess what the insurance policy doesn’t cover? A missing earring of course! I called Zales to confirm what I was already aware of.  Missing diamonds, covered. Missing earring, uncovered. The most painful part of losing this earring is the fact that it isn’t that painful at all. Truth be told, I simply dislike knowing I lost or didn’t take care of my valuables. That’s what’s bothering me the most. The sentimental value behind the diamonds isn’t my biggest debacle, but my wounded pride of knowing that these earrings are yet another thing I couldn’t hold on to. What is my problem with retention, and why is it so hard for me to have longevity in my relationships? Even if the relationship was simply with a pair of diamond earrings. Why is it such a problem for me to hold onto things? I beat myself up for as long as I could, retracting my steps like a mad, frantic woman who really lost her mind and not an earring. I need to know I have the willpower to consistently hold on to something in my life. The last few weeks have been loss after loss, and a pair of diamond earrings was not one of the items I had the strength to add to list. Recently, I officially broken off all physical and mental ties with present and past baggage, in hopes of preparing myself entirely for my future,self and love. Deep down I know I can never be one of those people moving into my future, but still wondering or curious about the “what ifs” over an ex. I needed to be completely and utterly detoxed. Losing this earring was like the last, final purge. Just three days before, I booked a hotel reservation on this same ex-boyfriend’s credit card, because the app we used in the past still had his information on file and processed the payment using his card. You can imagine how mortified I was, making plans to have sex with one deadbeat person from my past using another past’s credit card to seal the deal. Long story short, I didn’t have sex and had to write that embarrassing Facebook message to my other ex letting him know the mayhem on his credit card. I was completely turned off when my ex calmly let me know, it was okay because he already reported this purchase on his card as a fraud.

What?! Why was that okay? That’s not okay! Are the cops going to come after me? It hasn’t even been 24 hours! The way this particular ex micro-managed his bank account was like an ironic slap in the face. Of course the man that could afford to buy me diamonds micro-managed his accounts and had alerts of every purchase sent to his phone. It’s like I remembered why we broke up all over again. I was turned off, and maturely sent the funds to his PayPal account which he requested I do in order for him to close the report he filed with Wells Fargo. What a shitty joke. Completely my fault that I take complete ownership over, but still shitty…

As for the other shitty asshole from my past I was willing to finally give a taste to after over a year of playing cat and mouse, let just say I’m still very much celibate. I won’t lie to you: It’s very hard and becomes very tempting. For example, this last occurrence I was determined to get my boots knocked and just have a “Sex in Another City” moment or a few  hours. Not only was I stood up but my period came on like the Nile flipping River. I cursed God that day, and the universe, and Mother Nature but then I remember the vow that I made. The next time I have sex, I want it to be with the one. The one that loves me as much as I him and can spoil, and flip me any way I please. Yes, I will be his personal pancake.

So am I still bummed about losing my diamond? Yes. Will I get over it? Probably. While I scurried my job site looking for my earring, a woman about fifty feet away from me had a seizure, and passed about in front of her grandkids. While I stood looking for and EMT to come quickly, all desire and materialistic urges to freak out over a diamond earring quickly diminished. It’s just a diamond earring, and a personal life lesson to remind me there’s more to life consume my thoughts on than a pair of diamond cluster earrings.

“It isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; its the pebble in your shoe.”- Muhammad Ali  (1942-2016)