From the Vaults

The nutters who contact me on Facebook are getting weirder.

Now, I wholly accept that if you put half-decent pictures of yourself up and allow people to contact you then they will. It is also fair enough that English is not everyone's first language, and I never mind anyone introducing themselves. I should point out, though, that there is no mention on my page of a BDSM lifestyle and whilst there are some pictures of me in PVC and plenty of black, there's no direct kink, no whips or bondage, nothing to outwardly infer specific preferences.

These have just baffled me.

“im submissive miss and i wanted to ask if youd consider having a slave boy of your own to pamper and spoil yopu and do everything you say ?x”

If I were you I’d consider English lessons. This one, again, IS a native speaker.

“hai name, spelt wrong what u lesbian girls ? If U Lesbian girls I am Like and Love U Please connect me or add me oke Thanks”

That’s just really, really funny. In so many ways.

“Hi ***** how are you hope your well, i have to say that you look stunning in your picture, i hope u had a lovely christmas and i wish u a happy new year.

I would love to massage your feet for you, please note that am really good at massageing feet as i have done massage course and i know how to take away stress from feet, neck and shoulders.

i hope u dont mind me messageing you and hope u contact me for a chat, take care byexx”

This is very polite and a much better approach, but is anyone else a little creeped out by the idea of a foot-perv doing a massage course?

Here I have one that just says “hi” and three kisses…, there’s another further down the page that just says ‘hi’, no message subject, no signature and the profile picture is a shot of a car.

“how are u im sure ive seen u b4 x” – This is… interesting somehow? If most of the people on my facebook messaged me every time they’d seen me, the site would overload. Why, just…what?

“hi miss, thanks for your accept.
im an obedient and good looking guy, 24 years old and i would love to be dominated by a strickt women as lifestyle.. i would love to feel my life owned by another dominante women and i live as per instructions. if your interested in making me your doggy slave please let me know, i would do my best to please you miss.
thanks”

I’ll be the judge of whether you’re good looking or not.

“Hi **** how are you hope your well
i have to say that you look stunning in your pic
i hope u dont mind me messageing you

i would love to massage your feet for you, please note am really good at massageing feet as i have done reflexology course. i hope u contact me for a chat byexx”

Foot fetish reflexology? Wait a sec, is this the same guy?!

“Hello ms *****: when are you going to post more magnificent pix?”

When I do. And messages like this make me check the privacy box…

“Hi!! Nice to meet you I'm from spain and i usually go to London. you're pictures are awesome! hi!!!! First of all you have a really nice blue eyes!! when i come back, possibly this summer, i would like to meet you and have a beer(it's a good way to improve my english hahaha ;-)
are you from london?
do you have a band?
really nice your pictures!!”

Holy enthusiasm Batman! And drinking with me will not do your English any favours: it doesn’t mine, anyway.

This is my favourite, though. Let it be noted that this guy was added because he’s a friend of a friend of a friend, although I’m not sure he knows I actually know who he is. He’s also a native English speaker, so mocking the delivery isn’t quite so cheap. Strange enough, he contacted me out of the blue a while ago and after a brief introduction proceeded to inform me that he was a virgin, wished no to be so and asked for advice. Well, for a start, how about not telling random girls on the internet?

He then proceeded to contact me for advice on a series of two and three day relationships, repeatedly ask me to put him in touch with various people (to which I occasionally obliged and they found it HILARIOUS. I’m sorry, I’m cruel, haven’t we established that?) and continue to bemoan the aforementioned virginity and wanting to ‘lose it’. Then came this.

“you know these pictures of in shiny if i can lose it to you i let you put then high heals anywhere you like :P xxx”

ARE. YOU. SERIOUS.

If I’ve translated this correctly - and your guess is as good as mine there – I think he’s referring to some recent pictures I posted of me in some extremely high fetish heels, to an album labeled ‘shiny’.

What I’m gathering then, is this… this thing, boy, whatever it is, is offering me its virginity and in return for my time will allow me to do whatever I like with my second-favourite stilettos.

Firstly, what kind of offer is that when I have volunteers for the same without the compromise of sex? Do you think you’re being daring and novel? Jog on, sunshine.

Secondly, hold on a moment, do you have ANY idea what you’re suggesting? Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m guessing not, I’m supposing it’s outside the imagination of anyone who can’t spell heels. In a world with no such thing as a safeword I’d be half tempted to take him up on that and leave him too traumatised to proposition anyone else he doesn’t know.

What hurts my brain is this fine specimen will undoubtedly eventually find someone to rid him of this pesky virginity and is clearly too stupid to properly understand contraception… That’s right, unless fluke and fate intervene, this will breed.

There you have it people – the future of the human race.

PRIDE - Even the Internalised Sort

I fancied you when I met you - oh, didn’t we all? Six-foot-something, heavily tattooed and pierced, one of those ridiculous to-die-for bodies, you quickly became the heart throb of our large cluster of misfits. I knew of at least five girls who had fallen head over heels for the tough guy looks and gorgeous smile, so I stuck to being your mate instead. Like I had a chance.

Maybe it felt once or twice like there was chemistry... I put it down to wishful thinking. At eighteen, you in your mid twenties seemed far too sophisticated. You had a girlfriend (have had ever since, for that matter) and too many girls after you, most of whom saw me as the safe platonic friend to ask “do you think he likes me?” and it was a stab wound, every time, to know you’d fancy them over me.

Only... I was completely, utterly wrong, and weren’t they all. Because under that hardcore exterior and behind closed doors you are THE single sissiest boywhore I have ever had the pleasure of, and my god have I had the pleasure of you in every way I can think of.

So next summer, whilst they are swooning over you in your vest top and cut-offs, I will be grinning at the memory of you in stockings and ribbons and frilled lace; in rubber; in cuffs and soaked underwear with the word ‘slut’ scrawled across that lovely washboard stomach. You ARE a slut, my slut, and a brilliantly imaginative and enthusiastic one at that. When they finish fishing for compliments and come to tell me that you’ve said they’ve got nice eyes, or you like their hair, I will smile and “oh really, wow”. I’ll be dying to tell them the things you’ve said to me, about me, about yourself, offered to do or in fact done in my name, but I’ll content myself with remembering how you sound whimpering, praying, begging not even for anything specific but purely groveling because I am your Goddess and you adore me.

And whilst I’m attached now and you should probably sort yourself out, I will forever take delight in remembering that you were my bitch.

GLUTTONY - The Other Pleasure

I am sick of food spoilsports. I love my food, I have a brain in my head and live a reasonably healthy life - I do not need to be told how many calories in all my food, or how many grams of salt or fat, those patronising little red yellow and green markers going “should you really be eating this?”

My weight stays pretty constant, and I’m happy with it. I can gain or lose it if I try; I sometimes lose or put on a few pounds without noticing and either work to correct it or straighten my routine out until it fixes itself. I’m ‘fortunate;’ if you consider size ten a goal, to have a fairly high metabolism and a taste for healthy (ish) food. I rarely balloon unless on medication, but if I did I wouldn’t be that bothered.

Friends of mine who have been or are overweight, by their own admission, choose to eat unhealthily. They do not eat three mars bars on the trot (I swear someone told me they did this although I can’t remember who) because they’re unaware that it is bad for them: they do it because they want to, and I say good for them to an extent. As such, printing calorie values in big bubbles on the front of packaging does nothing. No one has been sitting there presuming a Toffee Crisp is a healthy option and then goes “256 calories? Really? I had no idea, better have an apple instead.”

It’s not people wanting to be healthy I have a problem with - it’s the nannying. I happen to think big is beautiful... not more beautiful than small, not less, just itself - but if people want to diet, they should have support. What gets to me is the constant haranguing of “have you had your five a day? Have you had eight glasses of water? Are you sure caffeine, after lunch? Holy god girl, carbs after midday, are you mad? Crisps?! I don’t think so. THAT’s not wholegrain, is it now. Well, you can put salt on that if you like...after all, it’s your cellulite, not mine...”

Yes, it is my cellulite. And I love it, and I love everyone else’s too. Every time I see a celebrity circled in a magazine for having put on a roll or two, I think good for you, maybe you’re actually happy and not living on cayenne pepper and lemon juice. In any case, I would rather see your lovehandles than your collarbones.

The bottom line is the people plastering ‘only 305 calories’ on my cous cous have no idea about the rest of my diet. If they did, it would not be “look, green light, only 305 calories!”, it would be “this is only 305 calories, so make sure you grab a banana or a biscuit or something because you haven’t had any breakfast and won’t eat til seven.” Not everyone needs to eat less, and it’s not for the Government to get in the face of those who do.

Ditto to the ‘daily health tips’ I seem to have accidentally signed up for. “We know it’s cold, but why not swap that large hot chocolate and cupcake for a skinny latte and a bran muffin?” Because I wanted hot chocolate. Plus I can’t have the cake or the muffin, so I’m going to have my hot chocolate with whipped cream, marshmallows, a flake and a shortbread on the side, and you can fuck off.

FOR GOD'S SAKE

REALLY?!

"inhaling Your gorgeous fuck juice"

It's not even the same guy. I have a new tag: fucknoun. Please now, boys and girls, don't make me use it ever again.

Truly Perverse.

NB: This post refers to roleplay, I am not being incestuously abused thank you Mr/Ms blog-trawling-concerned-authorities.

I went through a stage of having very niche-fetish phonesex with a friend, and this one came up.

"How's my little girl?"

"Sleepy."

"Do you want a bedtime story?"

"Yes please."

"You know what I want to hear."

I drop out of the breathy lisp that makes me sound half my age. "I can't, Tom*, it's weird."

"I think we went past weird a long time ago," he laughs."Come on, princess."

Somehow, it's not quite right that this is the only context in which I have ever said these words. "I love you, daddy."

"Good girl."


*Names changed to protect the god-honestly wrong in the head.

St. Kink

I credit much of my current self confidence and my current attitude to one man. Before him, I was a wallflower slowly peeling from the brickwork and beginning to lean into the open air. After a few mere months of him (in real terms, ten days or so in his company) I had blossomed into... well, a raving pervert. Not so sure blossomed was the word I was looking for, now!

I’m not for a second saying he corrupted me. More that he, in gently revealing his own...tendencies, gave me a forum to reveal my darkest desires and showed me that it was alright to want things. Alright to experiment. Alright for things to go horribly wrong and if you ended up having to cringe/laugh hysterically/burn the evidence/call the paramedics you chalked it up to experience. As such, I tried more things for the first time with him than I can possibly put number to (although one day I might try)and know I won’t hold back on things I want to do in the future.

And my my, he was into some weird stuff. I say was, I presume I haven’t put him off any of it. And when I say weird, I mean... there are fetishes, and there are the fetishes that are taboo even amongst the fairly open minded, and he is off the end of that scale. And slightly to the side: there were things he came out with which were just baffling. Not even disgusting, just plain obscure, like he was making them up to find out if I’d say yes to everything.

I did.

And I did because I trusted him. Not to look after my heart, not to turn down hot local girls determined to sleep their way up the scene, but to be honest about it and not put me at risk. To stop when I said stop, to be open to my own little quirks and fantasies, to be patient whilst I learned and to laugh when it went horrendously wrong.

It was like a great big BDSM/Fetish checklist. We did pretty much everything I’ve every heard of, and a few things I’m convinced he made up. One or two maybe I did. At one point he genuinely had an Excel spreadsheet written up, because we knew our time was limited and you have to be organised to fit all this nonsense into a couple of hotel weekends a month. Sadly we left it with a few boxes yet to tick, although the rate we added to it, I don’t think we’d have run out of ideas in a lifetime of room service and individual Molton Brown hair and bodywash bottles.

This was how I went from having done virtually nothing to virtually everything in half a year. And I must say, I enjoyed all of it. The sex was fantastic, both in terms of technique/results and the balance of tenderness and humour with which it was conducted making it completely okay that I wasn’t loved, committed, or a ‘girlfriend’... it was fun, I was having a fantastic time and accepted that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

That’s not to say he was perfect: he was, after all, doing all this in spite of being in love with another woman; he was consumingly pretentious, vain to the point of parody; once we genuinely thought he’d given me herpes and on more than one occasion we had blazing rows that lasted days. But rare to find a man who could flatter me without being smarmy, teach without being patronising, idolise me without being lecherous... Given the volatile nature of the concepts we played with it could have gone so horribly wrong, but he took my fragile self esteem and handled it with such care that our twisted pastiche of a love life became the most enjoyable and fulfilling thing I had ever had.

I thanked him a while ago, sincerely, for giving me the safe learning environment which has opened my mind and, dare I say it, enriched my life. And for doing so without once letting me feel used, dirty, hurt or anything on that spectrum. What he considers common decency has been above many of the people I’ve encountered, and I truly appreciate it.

“I’ll be alright when you go to write your autobiography then? Like a madman, obviously, but a decent one?”

“Oh yeah,” I replied. “When I write my biography, you’re going to come across as the Patron Saint of Perverts.”