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. ūüĎĮ


Tamara StylesūüíĄ



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 fianc√©. 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)



Fur Collar & Vans Sneakers

Sometimes the best things in life happen when we just let life happen. Let’s marinate on that thought for a moment: Let. Life. Happen.

I let life happen with a Cuban tattoo artist and a 6’8 Music Therapist, and came home from both encounters still a proud celibate woman. I can let life happen. I don’t have to give up sex just to live life. God forgive me, but I’m no Virgin Mary. I am merely more in-tuned with my worth and the value of my puss*. There’s been so much going on between Fashion Weeks, growing professionally and figuring out what I want personally, I just couldn’t see myself succumbing to the temptations of penis right now. Sex would just complicate things, and I have enough to tackle. Despite all of the items on my plate and penis proposals,  I’m realizing my family is highly important to me. My Grandmother is going through a lot of health related issues, so for anyone wondering where I’ve been: There is your answer, I’ve been sitting with my Grandmother on my days off skimming as many fashion shows as I possibly could. There’s been a couple times I’ve felt like I was going to lose it, I can’t recall the last time I’ve truly taken a day off. Thank God for an amazing support system and a monthly fashion magazine purchase because I’m not quite sure how else I would stay sane. 

A big dilemma for me was whether I should have sex with the Cuban tattoo artist or not (6’8 Music Therapist wasn’t even in the running after our first date). In the midst of the madness, sex seemed like a quick fix to my growing anxieties. 

“Tattoo Artist” was so sexy, I couldn’t stand it! I knew he was a ladies man. It was written all over his handsome ass face. He was just my type: 6’1, tattoos (over 40 to be exact), gages, thick full-pink lips, a messy comb-over hair style and an awesome footwear collection which included some of my favorite classic black Vans sneakers. He was visual eye-candy, all 6 feet plus of him with this amazingly mannish beer- belly. It wasn’t a gut; just a belly. One of those stomachs you’d find yourself rubbing while you “Netflix and Chill”, but I knew with every fiber in my body, I wouldn’t be the only one he’d be watching Netflix with. It was agony just to even think about. “Tattoo Artist” was literally one of those things you’d want to own just to be able to say,”Look at what I have!” I didn’t even consider him as the person he was, just a thing. An accessory to show off, but not necessarily the best mental catch. Yes he looked awesome, but would he support me emotionally the way I needed a man to? I battled a few nights not driving to this guy’s house just to give him a taste. Everytime I almost came close, God stopped me directly in my tracks.   

“Tattoo Artist” couldn’t understand how much self -control I had, he was obviously used to women throwing themselves at him. I tried to explain it was like my love of cheesecake: I love it, but I won’t eat it. If I start eating it, I won’t want to stop so I’d rather not eat any at all. Of course I’d eventually treat myself to a slice or two, but now just wasn’t the time to fall off the wagon. No matter how much I love cheesecake or his looks for that matter. I can look at cheesecake, I just won’t touch it.

He must’ve grown weary of me teasing him. How many times have you made out with someone for over three hours? Three hours of just kissing made me the ultimate “dick teaser”, but I couldn’t give it up only after two dates! Our first date was like finding your new favorite heels. Every time you think about it, you smile. I wore my infamous red and black harness bra, with an all black attire, black sneakers and my fur collar opened enough to show off my bra and chest. By the time of our second date, we built enough sexual tension through two rounds of pool to make me fantasize about him taking me directly on the table (God forgive me). But I kept my composure, even while being in a close-knit proximity of the car. I let him tongue me down for an entire three hours with conversation in between, without even pulling out a tit. I wasn’t fully aware of how much willpower I actually had until that experience. Our kisses were like fire upon fire, I don’t think I’ve ever kissed anyone that deeply. My insides were tingling, but I just couldn’t give him me without fully knowing where we were going. He didn’t give me any answers, and ultimately I only wanted him for his looks. I eventually realized I wasn’t attracted to anything about him past his physical features, so where would we go beyond sex? 


    I let our dates happen because that was part of the universal plan. Sometimes just through dating, you learn so much about yourself: you learn your likes from your dislikes. However, having sex would’nt have taught me anything other than what he could possibly do with his penis. If the sex was horrific, that would’ve not only been a waste, but a major setback. I’m on the mission of growth. I’m not interested in intentionally setting myself back. 

Let life happen exactly the way it’s supposed to happen. Even if that means “it”never even happens..

Peace, Love and Growth,
Tamara Styles.

“All I could do, is just offer you. My love.” ~Prince


Groovy, Baby

Fashion is heading into an era I am so in love with: the 70’s. If I could ask God to send me back in time, I’d humbly request to live as a hot, young red head in the late 70’s. From the fashion, disco music, to the infamous Studio 54 parties, the late 70’s was an opening to women and gay liberation. The late 70’s administered a new level of self-love, and was an entrance to the acceptance of individuality. People actually wanted to see the weird and different. Normal was just boring and overrated. The conservative consensus of the country finally opened its canal to a new state of mind with so many negative outbreaks happening, from wars to various protests. Women were also breaking away from being submissive to men’s demands once the government approved birth control. It was like women finally had a chance to say, “Kiss my ass, I don’t want your baby.” 

   Could you imagine living in an age where celebrities and ordinary people party together? I don’t mean VIP sections and ropes. It was utterly everyone who was anyone with an eclectic style or personality on the dance floor having a groovy time. Ordinary, everyday people were inspiring designers and celebs while happy substances were being shared like favors! That’s sheer, awesome tranquility. Party-goers flocked to Studio 54 to get an opportunity to not only rub elbows with stars like Micheal Jackson, Andy Warhol and David Bowie. I know I’m sharing a lot of history, but fashion is history baby! If life were still so simple with less social-standard boundaries, we’d live in a much better place!   

This period in fashion and music history is the ultimate nirvana. Everyone wanted to dance, feel high and have a good time. People weren’t stuck, glued to their cell blocks (aka cellphones) watching moments of the past, people actually lived in the moment. I miss living in the moments. Not saving the moments for others and their standards or expectations of what my moments should look like. I like to do what I want, when I want leaving a trail of golden glitter behind.   

But more than anything, I’d love to revisit the late 70’s for the carefreeness and less pressures of perfection. Seriously, when else would loads of blue shadow over a naked face, false lashes and big hair be accepted? Now, everything in life is so focused on being perfect, we’re missing out on the beauty of life. This is the hardest and biggest pill I’ve had to take: I don’t care about the perfection anymore. I’ve spent years wasting on perfection only to realize I’m the farthest thing from it. I don’t want perfection. I want beauty. Beauty inside as well as out is much more fun than just perfect. I save my perfect for Jesus. Give me beauty baby.


If the late 70’s didn’t teach us anything else, it taught us to live a zen life and not be afraid of bell-bottoms or blue shadow. There is no harm in striving for beauty, its the perfection that slowly kills. 

“What is perfection anyway?”

Fashionably Yours Forever,

Perfect Winged Eyeliner

Want to know the kind of day you’re going to have? You can¬†almost always¬†gauge by the outcome of your winged liner…


I knew my day was going to be fucking crazy when my winged liner just wouldn’t cooperate. My makeup was on point,¬†flawlessly executed and completely successful. Then the moment came to apply¬†my wings, and things went haywire. I don’t know what the hell happened, but my liner just would not work with me. I begged, grunted, took my time and after a few tries¬†with a bit of cleanup, I was finally satisfied with the outcome. At that very moment while staring into the mirror, I realized my day was going to be the exact same way; messy, drive me crazy in the beginning but turn out perfectly fine in the end. My liner was like a psychic into the future! After I finally finished arguing with my winged liner and came to a mutual understanding with my lip color, it was time to get dressed and head out for my 1 pm client. I was determined to be on time and perky after a cup of French vanilla coffee.

I wound up being late and to the brink of hysterically in tears. I didn’t want to be late, I was utterly in panic mode. I wanted to be on time, gracing the driveway as if it were my runway. Life has a way of humbling you and getting your ass in order. I was lost, beyond lost. Lost in a way I didn’t even think I could’ve been lost. Now looking back it was kind of funny, but in the moment there wasn’t a¬†second of laughter. My GPS directed me to any and everywhere other than my client’s house. By the time I finally pulled up in front of her door, I realized I drove passed her complex at least 7 times. I was mortified and beyond apologetic. As a professional, I just didn’t want to come across as the” young, late girl”. Not only was I lost, I called “Minnesota” to calm me down and offer some of his¬†motivational speeches. He didn’t even have the decency to pick up the phone or call me back! I was beyond crushed. Calling my client was no help. It was like the blonde leading the blonde and put me in more disarray.


As I sat in front of my client’s house for a good two seconds to breathe and look at myself in the mirror, I realized two things: Maybe this whole “Minnesota” ordeal wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. I was pissed, but life did push me into putting my “big girl boy shorts” on and making things happen on my own. Minnesota didn’t get me to where I am, he was just a page or two in my story. The second thing I confirmed is that my day was actually going to be smooth sailing there on out. The messy, unkempt part of my day was over (finally). It was now time to clean up and do an amazing job as I initially intended. The sucky part of my “eyeliner” day was over. Now was the time to create a masterpiece, and I was confident the rest of my day was going to be a perfect wing liner day. Truth be told, it actually was.

Artist Makeup Tip 101: I like to line my lids with a gel liner first, then use a liquid to create my wing tips. When doing your liner, look into the mirror and declare that you’re going to have an amazing day!





Power In The Head

I came across a wretched article online about giving blow jobs. Well, the idea of blow jobs wasn’t the wretched part. The content of the article is what bothered me most.

Half way through reading, I spared myself the agony of continuing any further without mentally gagging. This article was truly a ploy to lure people in and like bait, I fell. The title of the article was bluntly in your face, “Something About Blow Jobs” or whatever the name was to reel readers in. To summarize what I managed to get through, the author gave a notion (in addition to probably giving terrible blow jobs) that women give away their power to men when they perform oral sex. Whether you agree or disagree with performing oral sex, let me just share a secret I’ve learned from my elders: Men never have the power in the bedroom. In consensual, adult sex, men have nothing more than a penis. Forgive me if the topic of BJ’s still makes you uncomfortable in 2016. However, I simply refuse to sit back and let women think that men actually have power in the bedroom. If and when they [men] do, its because we [women] gave it to them.

Adam Eve Michelangelo

Appalled by this article, I madly sent it to a group of friends (male and female) to get their opinion. I couldn’t stop chuckling by the message in this topic. Why the hell would women willingly give oral sex to lose their power? And if we lose our power by doing it to them, do men lose theirs by doing it to us? If there’s an exchange of power happening through oral sex, we either need to do much more to one another, or go on strike all together. I received so many different responses from close knit friends, and the consensus is that women do indeed hold the “power” key in the bedroom. The only person to disagree that women actually do lose their power, made it more of a moral issue and self-respect stance. Foremost, I’d hope women aren’t still sucking any Joe Schmo’s anymore. Those cave-man BJ days should’ve left the building with “free nights and weekends” cell phone plans, darling. I’m sure even “Sex and the City’s” Samantha would have burned that bridge by now. BJ’s should be a special gift along with the prized cookies. You don’t see airlines offering first-class treatment to passengers flying coach- do you? It just doesn’t happen!

So yes, oral sex with a respected partner that you know almost everything about up to or including his social, is completely your power and your choice. Even if the man makes an idiotic move by pushing your head down there, the ball’s still in your court or wherever else you’d like to put them. Women, always hold the power. If you’re having to question your morals, self-respect or if you’ll still have your power moments after the BJ is over, then his member is not something you should be putting on or into your body darling. If you’re going to do something, do it with respect for yourself and your best interests at heart. We honestly know before anything leads to a BJ if an individual is even deserving of our time, let alone oral sex. I share this knowledge because I too had to learn and go through the, “Is he worthy?” checklists in life. The entrepreneur that can offer you professional advice along with personal guidance? He has the potential of being worthy. The struggling filmmaker that wants you to pay for your own drinks on the first date, but drops sexual innuendos in initial conversations doesn’t even deserve a text back much less a BJ.

The topic lingered in the back of my mind for a few days, and I couldn’t help but to ask the only person I would consider doing or performing anything with at this point:

Me: When a woman gives you a BJ, is she giving you her power?

“Minnesota”: “…You only give what you want when you want to.”

There you have it. You give what you want, when you want to ladies. I personally never give away my power in the bedroom. I give love, and I may submit because I fancy the dominance of an Alpha-male’s authority. But to willingly give away my power, that is something I cannot see myself doing. Someone once told me, “You can make a man think he has the power by letting him win, but in the end you’re the one who actually won because you had the power to let him win in the first place”. I like to win. BJ or no BJ, it’s my choice and my power.

Don’t suck just any lollipops dolls! Find your worthy, favorite and save your mouth power for that one, or none at all!

With Love,