I spend my entire life bemoaning being people's second choice, being second best, being second priority etc etc, because it hurts too much. Someone suggests an actual stance as a secondary partner...
...and I consider it. If that's not real masochism, I don't know what is.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Not Cut Out for This
I love my body.
Okay, no, I don't because it doesn't work and I'd like not to be in pain for five minutes, but I love my body in the way most people don't like their own.
I'm a decent height and reasonable weight without much effort. I've got disproportionate, child-sized hands and feet, an almost unnaturally narrow waist for my size. My boobs are small but perfectly formed (and probably not as small as I joke them to be. In a decent push up bra, they're adequately distracting). I have a little soft curve of pudge under my navel, curved hips, stocky but muscular thighs and the best arse you'll see all week. None of it's perfect, but it's a nice woman-shape and onlookers can like it or fuck off.
The hinderances, then, if you want to call them that: I'm very much the shape for corsets. So much so that I have to buy them very very small or they just don't do anything, I already have that extreme shoulders:waist:hips ratio.
Any restraints which would use the hands or feet are not going to work on me. They don't account for such tiny hands and feet and I will slip right out of them.
Any shoes with a fetish bent, or even a decent heel, need to be custom made. Now, I'm not arguing they should make platform stilettos for kids, but it gets expensive!
I have to wear gloves at fetish clubs, or I get the hand-pervs. As it is, I get an immense amount of aristocratic kisses on the hand. I daren't ever dance in bare feet when I get tired, I made that mistake once. Bare, high arched, size two feet are a little too much of a temptation for people that way inclined, it seems.
That said, I'm never short a human foot stool, a shoe shine, or a massage, so really - why complain?
Okay, no, I don't because it doesn't work and I'd like not to be in pain for five minutes, but I love my body in the way most people don't like their own.
I'm a decent height and reasonable weight without much effort. I've got disproportionate, child-sized hands and feet, an almost unnaturally narrow waist for my size. My boobs are small but perfectly formed (and probably not as small as I joke them to be. In a decent push up bra, they're adequately distracting). I have a little soft curve of pudge under my navel, curved hips, stocky but muscular thighs and the best arse you'll see all week. None of it's perfect, but it's a nice woman-shape and onlookers can like it or fuck off.
The hinderances, then, if you want to call them that: I'm very much the shape for corsets. So much so that I have to buy them very very small or they just don't do anything, I already have that extreme shoulders:waist:hips ratio.
Any restraints which would use the hands or feet are not going to work on me. They don't account for such tiny hands and feet and I will slip right out of them.
Any shoes with a fetish bent, or even a decent heel, need to be custom made. Now, I'm not arguing they should make platform stilettos for kids, but it gets expensive!
I have to wear gloves at fetish clubs, or I get the hand-pervs. As it is, I get an immense amount of aristocratic kisses on the hand. I daren't ever dance in bare feet when I get tired, I made that mistake once. Bare, high arched, size two feet are a little too much of a temptation for people that way inclined, it seems.
That said, I'm never short a human foot stool, a shoe shine, or a massage, so really - why complain?
Monday, 15 March 2010
Flingers
I have had the great pleasure in my life to encounter more than one flinger.
Know what I mean? Are you one yourself? The type of lover who will pull an item of clothing, normally your underwear, off and fling it haphazardly into the middle distance. Sometimes they don't even know they're doing it, something's in the way and they are removing the obstacle. Others, it's a very deliberate "you won't be needing these..." In either case, it's fun and the noise as such items hit the floor (usually) a metre or so away is delicious. Flingers, never stop, you are truly fantastic.
This, however, is why my flatmate remarks when doing the washing that I seem to get through twice as much underwear as I reasonably should. The logic behind this is that I never put the same underwear back on after sex:
A) It feels a bit weird, and
B) I normally can't find it.
Also, come laundry day, I have normally found at least one tangled lace item on top of my wardrobe, behind my radiator or bunched up in a bit of my curtain. Sorry, grim but true. At least you now know they were relatively clean.
On a final point, just don't fling condoms. I mean, I know there's used as in rolled on and taken off and used as in used, but even the former... come on, that was dry-clean only.
Know what I mean? Are you one yourself? The type of lover who will pull an item of clothing, normally your underwear, off and fling it haphazardly into the middle distance. Sometimes they don't even know they're doing it, something's in the way and they are removing the obstacle. Others, it's a very deliberate "you won't be needing these..." In either case, it's fun and the noise as such items hit the floor (usually) a metre or so away is delicious. Flingers, never stop, you are truly fantastic.
This, however, is why my flatmate remarks when doing the washing that I seem to get through twice as much underwear as I reasonably should. The logic behind this is that I never put the same underwear back on after sex:
A) It feels a bit weird, and
B) I normally can't find it.
Also, come laundry day, I have normally found at least one tangled lace item on top of my wardrobe, behind my radiator or bunched up in a bit of my curtain. Sorry, grim but true. At least you now know they were relatively clean.
On a final point, just don't fling condoms. I mean, I know there's used as in rolled on and taken off and used as in used, but even the former... come on, that was dry-clean only.
Monday, 8 March 2010
On Being a Dodgy Perv in an Overcoat
I bring you this blog from an exhibition, where I'm very well dressed, handing out business cards and causing designer handbag envy. Makes it all the more delicious, I feel.
Ahhh, there's nothing like a proper knee length belted mac for making you feel and look like a grade A pervert. Particularly when what's visible below said mac is freshly-shined black moulded rubber stockings and seven and a half inch stiletto heels, as it was when I deigned to horrify a perfectly respectable woman in a hotel lobby.
I'd like you to picture the scene, because I find it incomparably amusing. Dressed thusly -
I held my head high and took three brave steps out of the lifts into the hotel lobby… where we were faced by an average middle aged couple. The bloke, bless him, gave us a cursory glance and walked on. The woman gave us a genuine triple take.
The first look was barely registering our obstruction of the path to the lift.
the second was a gawp of enthralled disgust. A thinly veied 'people like you really exist?' Indeed. And the fact neither of us are the fat, balding loner men associated with such stereotypes but in fact, may I say it myself, relatively attractive examples of the species probably did nothing for her confusion.
She made herself look away, of course, and then couldn't resist a look back. The last one was definitely fascinated contempt, for some reason aimed far more squarely at me than my actually more rubbery date, and then when she attempted to avert her eyes, they went to the floor, got stuck on my shoes and I almost tripped over it as I continued to saunter along, suppressing a lot of giggles.
Was all that really called for? Other than the overtly sexual connotations, there was nothing obscene or visually offensive about it - so the thought process is then 'what am I missing out on, here? What pleasures do they know of that I don't?'
A fair few, if that face was anything to go by, you miserable trout.
It's half eleven, madam, we're consenting adults. Let's face it: what you don't like about this picture is that I am having more fun than you. Does my composure in such hip tilting shoes threaten you? Does my comfort in attire that speaks such filthy volumes about my proclivities unnerve you? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Does it maybe turn you on a bit? i do hope so.
So here's to you, Ms. Face like a slapped arse - not only were you the source of much immediate amusement which i'm still having a chuckle at several days later, but I thought about you. Oh yes. However many hours later, drowned in pounding music, surrounded by darkness, enjoying the admiring stares of strangers whilst being thoroughly fucked, what remained intact of my outfit still on, apart from where it counted, I thought of you. I thought how absolutely horrified you'd be by the entire scene, let alone my inadvertently involving you in it. I knew you'd be entirely appalled and just maybe the tiniest bit jealous, and nothing turns me on quite like that. If only you knew.
Other hilarity includes being bumped to a suite bigger than my entire flat because they'd originally allocated us a room with two single beds pushed together. The temptation, had they not been cooperative, to spill the contents of two suitcases of kink onto the reception desk and inform them that really, a double room would be better would have been overwhelming. And it might have sidestepped the moment when room service knocked a bottle of latex polish off the table. Or we once again spectacularly failed to notice something conspicuously dodgy in full view before ordering food. And actually, it's just occurred to me that I may have been upside down on the sofa reading in none too conservative underwear and a duran duran t-shirt when they came in, and that on the scale of the weekend's weirdness, this was normal enough to have escaped my attention until reflecting several days later.
Ahhh, there's nothing like a proper knee length belted mac for making you feel and look like a grade A pervert. Particularly when what's visible below said mac is freshly-shined black moulded rubber stockings and seven and a half inch stiletto heels, as it was when I deigned to horrify a perfectly respectable woman in a hotel lobby.
I'd like you to picture the scene, because I find it incomparably amusing. Dressed thusly -
I held my head high and took three brave steps out of the lifts into the hotel lobby… where we were faced by an average middle aged couple. The bloke, bless him, gave us a cursory glance and walked on. The woman gave us a genuine triple take.
The first look was barely registering our obstruction of the path to the lift.
the second was a gawp of enthralled disgust. A thinly veied 'people like you really exist?' Indeed. And the fact neither of us are the fat, balding loner men associated with such stereotypes but in fact, may I say it myself, relatively attractive examples of the species probably did nothing for her confusion.
She made herself look away, of course, and then couldn't resist a look back. The last one was definitely fascinated contempt, for some reason aimed far more squarely at me than my actually more rubbery date, and then when she attempted to avert her eyes, they went to the floor, got stuck on my shoes and I almost tripped over it as I continued to saunter along, suppressing a lot of giggles.
Was all that really called for? Other than the overtly sexual connotations, there was nothing obscene or visually offensive about it - so the thought process is then 'what am I missing out on, here? What pleasures do they know of that I don't?'
A fair few, if that face was anything to go by, you miserable trout.
It's half eleven, madam, we're consenting adults. Let's face it: what you don't like about this picture is that I am having more fun than you. Does my composure in such hip tilting shoes threaten you? Does my comfort in attire that speaks such filthy volumes about my proclivities unnerve you? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Does it maybe turn you on a bit? i do hope so.
So here's to you, Ms. Face like a slapped arse - not only were you the source of much immediate amusement which i'm still having a chuckle at several days later, but I thought about you. Oh yes. However many hours later, drowned in pounding music, surrounded by darkness, enjoying the admiring stares of strangers whilst being thoroughly fucked, what remained intact of my outfit still on, apart from where it counted, I thought of you. I thought how absolutely horrified you'd be by the entire scene, let alone my inadvertently involving you in it. I knew you'd be entirely appalled and just maybe the tiniest bit jealous, and nothing turns me on quite like that. If only you knew.
Other hilarity includes being bumped to a suite bigger than my entire flat because they'd originally allocated us a room with two single beds pushed together. The temptation, had they not been cooperative, to spill the contents of two suitcases of kink onto the reception desk and inform them that really, a double room would be better would have been overwhelming. And it might have sidestepped the moment when room service knocked a bottle of latex polish off the table. Or we once again spectacularly failed to notice something conspicuously dodgy in full view before ordering food. And actually, it's just occurred to me that I may have been upside down on the sofa reading in none too conservative underwear and a duran duran t-shirt when they came in, and that on the scale of the weekend's weirdness, this was normal enough to have escaped my attention until reflecting several days later.
Friday, 5 March 2010
My turn
Fetish clubbing tonight, which should be fairly brilliant, followed by a weekend in the city making the most of hotel facilities and as much pervery as you can fit into two reasonably sized suitcases. I sat on mine to get it done up and, on triumphantly padlocking the two halves of the zip together, realised I hasn't actually got proper clothes with me. Probably irrelevant, I doubt I'll need more than what I'm travelling in.
A chance, tonight, to dredge up and tick off a few of my long term fantasies. Not that things so far have been by any means one-sided, but we've mostly gone for things he's suggested and I've thought were a great idea, or decided were worth a try and ended up loving. I think all of tonight's set up was my idea first, and this is pleasingly new to me. I'm excited.
What's not as new to me as he thinks is the club sex. I'm not hiding much, it's just that when playmate du jour was first warned of my relative inexperience, his reaction was interesting, and I may have been laying it on a little thick since then. You know, the "why, no... I've never done that..." which I might possibly have lead him to the impression covers sex with an audience. White lies, white lies, I figured I'd be best off not telling the Berlin Story, particularly as aforementioned playmate and I were already seeing each other when I had that little interlude.
I haven't even posted any club sex stories yet, have I? Shame on me, bad girl, etc. My very next post, promise.
A chance, tonight, to dredge up and tick off a few of my long term fantasies. Not that things so far have been by any means one-sided, but we've mostly gone for things he's suggested and I've thought were a great idea, or decided were worth a try and ended up loving. I think all of tonight's set up was my idea first, and this is pleasingly new to me. I'm excited.
What's not as new to me as he thinks is the club sex. I'm not hiding much, it's just that when playmate du jour was first warned of my relative inexperience, his reaction was interesting, and I may have been laying it on a little thick since then. You know, the "why, no... I've never done that..." which I might possibly have lead him to the impression covers sex with an audience. White lies, white lies, I figured I'd be best off not telling the Berlin Story, particularly as aforementioned playmate and I were already seeing each other when I had that little interlude.
I haven't even posted any club sex stories yet, have I? Shame on me, bad girl, etc. My very next post, promise.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Payment in Kind
Actually, my handmade custom rubber outfits (enthusiastically donated by playmates who would enjoy my wearing them as much as I do) are worth a damn sight more than the Louis Vuitton purse your fiance bought you. And I'm not making dinner.
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