Nearly A New Year

2015 was an odd one.

Life is always a mixture of both good and bad, of course, but I seemed to have gotten much larger dollops of each this past year, often concurrently.

     Changes at work that I loathe, yet with opportunities to learn and stretch my mind.

     Monetary challenges that are greater than ever, yet that I found a way to address.

     Friends that fell off the map and others that found their way back to the frequent flyer list.

     A relationship that has grown deeper and closer, 

            but with very real issues that have cropped up - which are still largely unresolved.

Yet for all the ups and downs, worries and joys, I still find -- for the first time in many years -- that when I take those little pauses during the day, the ones that are often filled with sighs or a furrowed brow..., I am smiling. Not a broad grin, just a simple, gentle, contented smile.

Over all, I think I liked this year.

So even tho' it's time to ring a new one in, I'm hoping for some carry over. ;-)

Here's to All of Us smiling at the end of 2016!

My Christmas Wish

No matter how you celebrate...

Peace,

Love,

Hope &

Joy...

To All

Dec 23rd

Well, he really liked his gift.

It was used immediately -- and extensively.

Now I'm off to spend Christmas in the bosom of my family.

Where I'll be sitting funny for the next couple of days… ;-D

The Burning Question

With only one week to go…

Decisions, Decisions...

I can smugly announce that I'm pretty much done with my Christmas shopping.

Except…

I've gotten a bit bogged down looking for BG's kinky gift for this year.

You see, after the debacle success of last year's magnets (gg, I still have a bone to pick with you about that!) I learned a very important lesson:

This man doesn't necessarily use toys the way I fantasize about.

(Go figure, huh?)

Even already-perverted pervertibles can take on new and unexpected purpose in his hands, so I must be vewy, vewy careful…

Those stinkin' magnets were purchased because I'd been swept away by visions of intense, erotic nipple pain - wave after wave of lovely burning torment, running straight from my breasts to my groin. Such was my dream… and is indeed the reality -- IF he chooses to use them on my nipples. But that truly is an iffy proposition, since his favorite way to use them is still... on my tongue. (#evenpainslutsweep)

And while I am generally able to withstand the searing agony of that for long enough to please him, I freely admit that each and every time, I'm also thinking, "What dang fool went and bought these, anyhow?"

So gift selection has been a far more deliberate affair this year.

Anything - anything at all - that makes me purr, "ooooh, that looks deliciously wicked…" must now be scrutinized from all angles, all possibilities considered. I've tried to see them with the eyes of a dominant… which generally results in a very short list of possibilities very quickly.

Yet I don't want to go completely chicken-shit on him, either. 

I still want to get something that will bring that evil grin to his face. 

Because let's face it, that's a pretty hot thing, that grin…  ;-D

What to do? what to do…?

Sugar-Buzzed

Thanks to each and every one of you who helped to make Cookie Day so much fun! 

Some of you were newcomers, some of you have been with me since year one, and ALL of you came up with fantastic recipes!

My eyeballs gained a lot of weight and I enjoyed every moment of it!

(#loveyouall)

'Til next year! 

"Because I Like It" Wednesday

Sorry I've been kinda quiet lately.
Busy, holidays, cookies, existential angst… you know the kind of thing I mean.  :-)
Still here, tho'!

If It's Nearly The Holidays...

~back when I'm done~

Once More Unto The Kitchens...

Yep. It's time to dust off your baking pans, because on Wednesday, December 9th 2015,

The Great Online Cookie Exchange Extravaganza returns!

And we'd like you (yes, you!) to join us.

It's easy to play along. 

Just post a recipe on that day for a holiday goodie -- any goodie. 

It doesn't have to be for cookies… or even be sweet.

We are equal opportunity treat lovers around here!

And…. that's pretty much all there is to it.

The single catch is that there's only one way to get your name in the official list of participants: You have to contact me by Monday, Dec. 7th, with both your name and the address of your blog.  

I'll also be happy to post a recipe for anyone who'd rather participate that way.

Hope to see you and your recipes soon!

In Which BG Tames the Lizard

(OK, "tames" might be too strong… it's not like the inner reptile has become completely domesticated. But it is back to sunning quietly on a rock, which is all I can ask, really.)

As I said, I hadn't shared my inner turmoil over his lack of jealousy. That would be just… well, silly. If the issue were something he had done or said, something he could actually control, that might be a different story. But you don't rail at someone for being the type of person they are. (Goodness, I'd have no friends at all if that were the case…!) No, you decide for yourself if you can handle the trait or not, and then respond appropriately. 

I did plan to discuss it with him at some point but I was waiting until I could achieve a comfortable, drama-free position on the whole situation.

The thing I always forget about this man?

      He is both intuitive in general and, more specifically, he understands me quite well. 

BG has a knack for instinctively knowing when I'm nearing the end of some tether or other and what he can to do to guide me back up the rope - all without me having to say a word. 

(Maybe I shouldn't be so amazed by this skill, but my experience with men has been that they generally have trouble seeing the world from outside their own framework. This isn't a right or wrong, it just means there's a lot more explaining that has to go on… and I hate having to explain myself. I'm much more comfortable interacting with someone who can get at least partway to my mindset all by himself.) 

But that's a tangent for another day.

Back to our story...

The time for Scene of the Week arrived and I'd calmed down enough that I was no longer in flight mode -- a bit of fragile uncertainty around the edges still, but nothing I couldn't ignore. 

I'm ready! Send me in, coach! 

Which he did, but not before kissing me legless. Then he moved on to strokes and praise, patience and dominance. Finally, he broke out the body part inventory. You know, the one that usually consists of a catechism of ownership…

"Whose ____ is this?" 

"Yours, sir" 

(only correct answer, no matter what the blank)

But this time, there were no questions...

Instead, I got declarative statements.

"This mouth wrapped around my cock?… is MINE.

These tits I'm mangling? … Mine.

That ass? That pussy? … Mine."

The distinction is small… but the difference it made was huge.

Claimed, valued, cared for…

The inner reptile gave a little sigh and settled right down.

A Very Tired Inner Reptile

Dominant as Lizard-Whisperer…

Who knew?!?

"Because I Like It" Wednesday

SP sent this, saying it was clearly written with me in mind…
And that he expected to see it on the blog.

Does this man know me, or what?!?

;-D

In Which I Become A Lizard

I managed to throw myself into quite the tailspin the other night.

I was teasing BG, asking if it would make him blink a bit to hear that I'd been holed up in a room, getting sweaty with two other men. 

(For a work task, nothing salacious - I was just being flip.)

"no… I'm not the jealous type"

Now, I already know he's not the jealous type… but somehow, on that night, those words crash-landed in my head as, "I don't care." 

As in, at all.

About me.

*WHAM!*

Down I went...

"I'm obviously not important to him then."

"If he cared, he'd give a damn"

"Not the jealous type or just not jealous of me?"

For the record, I know I'm mixing apples and oranges here.

   I know that's not at all what he said. 

   I know that some people genuinely don't feel sexual jealousy.

Welcome to my head, anyhow… it bothered me. A lot.

The funny thing is, I don't even want a jealous guy. It's a petty emotion and irksome to have to deal with, to say the least. I'm actually glad he's not the type.

Nor am I particularly so myself. I won't go all noble and superior on you and say I don't have a jealous bone in me… I do. But it's not something that rears up all that often, either.  

Yet despite all this cerebral knowledge, my tiny reptilian brain still insists on conflating jealousy and caring. 

(The same tiny reptilian brain that is responsible for "fight or flight", apparently -- because let me tell you what an effort it has been to just shut up and sit tight until the dang lizard calms down.) 

I know that one does not have anything to do with the other. People can be jealous of things they don't even value. Jealousy has no worth as a measure of caring.

I get this…

                 …but the inner reptile is struggling.

They're right… it's not easy being green...

The Unexpected Development

So…

the man who has never before shown any interest in orgasm control… 

     has decided I need to start edging.

My first assignment was to edge four times in the hour before he arrived.

Perhaps that is not much for the experienced amongst us.

     It about killed me.

Additionally, I also had to field texts from him during the process.

"how's it going?"

"bet you're getting frustrated, huh?"

"they seem to be taking less time, don't you think?"

"time to start again!"

Then I had to sit with all my jangling nerves pressed up against my new hitachi-clone...

     while giving him a blowjob.

"Oh, you're not allowed to come yet"

*GaaaaaAAAAaaaaaah!*

It's entirely possible that the words, "rat-bastard" may have run through my head...

Sometimes...

I was listening to an old interview with Mollena and while I don't remember the exact context in which this comment came up, she actually uttered the words, "God, I feel like a terrible submissive for even thinking this, but sometimes, I just want somebody to do me."

Thank you, Jeezus!

I realize that's not a particularly popular sentiment here in Lower-case Blogland, but surely there are more than two of us that feel that way? I mean, I really don't consider myself a selfish submissive… I genuinely do get off on pleasing my dom. I enjoy giving over to him, I enjoy letting him direct our every interaction, I love to make him happy.  

But submission is actually a lot of work. Work happily done, but work, nonetheless.

And sometimes, a girl just wants to lie back and get fucked. 

It doesn't have to be a vanilla fuck…, spanking and girl-slapping would still be A-OK. 

I don't need it to center around my pleasure.

Nor am I wanting to call the shots… that wouldn't be enjoyable, either.

It's just that sometimes, I don't want to have to do anything. 

Sometimes, I feel passively receptive, rather than actively submissive.

Or maybe this is just me…?

"Because I Like It" Wednesday

Mal de Mattress

Every now and again, we'll be going along just fine when, whammo!, my body decides to play Whiny Child In The Backseat, fussing and squirming and telling you to pull over, it's gotta throw up. 

It happened the other night, in fact -- not for the first time, and probably not for the last.

The problem is the position. BG (and, if tumblr is to be believed, every other man in the universe) loves, loves, LOVES to have me on my back, head hanging over the mattress, while he fucks my mouth. He gets dominance, he gets depth, he gets visual, he gets unimpeded groping and slapping access… Did I mention, loves it?

And strictly from the blow-job-giving perspective, I love it, too. The angle's good, my teeth aren't so obstructionist, there's not so much pharyngeal objection on my part… 

Really just a lot less to worry about. 

So, everyone's happy, right?

Well, no. 

Because I'm "blessed" with the world's touchiest vestibular system.

I get motion-sickness at the drop of a hat . Hell, even just seeing "To Fly" in an IMAX theater laid me out for an entire afternoon. (I had to retire to a bench and sip gingerale while my family went on and enjoyed the rest of the museum.)  So, the act of hanging my head backwards over a mattress is basically an invitation to nausea… and then some.

After a few minutes, my stomach lurches, my head aches, my neck screams, my ears start ringing from the pressure, and just to put a cherry on top, anxiety gathers until I'm verging on a panic attack. (Plus, ever since the concussion gifted me with vertigo, you can also toss in a good 50/50 chance that my eyeballs will start bobbling.) Unchecked, these reactions combine to induce the kind of deep, roiling, grey misery that lingers for hours… and I hate it.

But because he loves that position so much, I'm generally willing to give it a whirl - for a little while, anyhow. We have a few minutes of happy slurping and satisfied growls, then I go, "Oh, God, no more" and he hauls me back up to level. (Often with a regretful sigh, but he's a man of honor.)  A couple of minutes spent laying flat (with a cock in my mouth, of course) and I'm usually good to go. 

If I misjudge my timing however (as I did the other night,) it's a different story. Because at those times, no matter how hard I fight the nausea, I usually can't get on top of it. So I'm distracted and we can get out of sync. Which makes the misery more than just physical, because now I'm struggling to stay with him AND beating myself up for being a crap sub.

Fine art neglect, nausea, scene disruption, and sub fail….

Motion sickness has got a lot to answer for in my life.

Your Daily Aphorism

Discoveries

Visits with 'nilla are always instructive.

For example: 

I received instruction in the use of an extendable lopper, so I can now snip off "dangling things that are annoying me" from twenty paces… *ahem*

(thank you for the use of your tool, my friend)

I learned that she most decidedly does not share my knitting curse…

I discovered what her favorite chocolates are…  and that among her mad skillz is the ability to extract all of the cream filling into her mouth at once, while leaving the shell nearly intact.

(M is a lucky, lucky man, I tell you!)

Of course, in return, I took her to one of the finest emporiums on earth, showed her how to use the search function on her start screen, and shamed her into trying an eggroll, so it's not entirely one-sided, here…

I also nearly snorted my tea when this woman, whose antics as a submissive make Weenie Girl cringe in the corner, looked at me (over that eggroll) and, with perfect sincerity, said, "You're pretty adventurous, missy."

(She's quick to hand over a napkin, too!)

The Storage Dilemma

When we first started playing, we didn't have a toybox. We didn't need one -- his hands, his belt, and some clothespins covered all bases just fine. Oh, and rope. (Hands and rope are our eternal constants.) 

As the years go by, however, our collection has grown -- and I've been stashing it all in one of those attractive photo boxes you get at the craft store: 

Clothespins, nipple clamps, wartenberg wheel, flogger, hot pink nipple sucker thingies, candles, matches, condoms, mini slapper, lube, vibe, rope… all small or flexible items. 

Even before The Great Purge of our time apart, everything could be discreetly tucked away.

Now that the rapprochement has held for over a year, however, we've dared begin to restock the box -- and not all of our purchases have been small. 

Discretion is becoming harder and harder to come by.

       And the fact that I'm a fussbudget isn't helping matters. 

I could size up the photo box -- that would take care of the majority of the items. 

But the damned crop still dangles shamelessly over the edge -- which it does in a storage hassock, as well. 

I could try a duffel-sized gym bag but the unstructured design doesn't offer much protection… 

I suppose I could get some big ol' plastic tote, but I'm resisting that idea on general principles. In my house, plastic storage is for hidden areas only. (I find the combination of honey pine and polycarbonate to be visually distressing.) So it would have to be tucked well away… and I'm too lazy for dusty expeditions to the basement on a weekly basis.

It's true that either of my cedar chests could contain all the goods (and add a lovely scent to our scenes as the crop whooshes through the air on its way to my flesh) but then where do I put all my sweaters and blankets and cherished heirloom dry goods?

What to do? What to do?

(Sometimes it's hell being kinky…)

7 Days Left...

Every October, Rori over at Between My Sheets accepts nominations for her Top Sex Blogger list. This year, she's shortened the nomination period - it closes on October 18th.

That's just a week away… 

Now, Rori doesn't count votes, she just uses the nominations to create the pool that she and Chase select from. So a single nomination is enough to get a spot on her list. (Don't ask me how I know this…) It's a ton of work for them but it generates a whole lot of pleasure for a whole lot of people.

(Not to mention a goodly amount of traffic.)

It's a great way to high-five your favorites but, even more, a fun way to expand your own reading list. Plus, it's a terrific way to foster communication among bloggers.

So, please, if there's a blog you particularly enjoy, someone you'd like to give a little boost to, head on over there and submit the blog for consideration.

But do it soon, ok?

Cuz you've only got 7 days left to get nominating!

In Which I Briefly Get It

If you've read here any length of time, you know I'm not particularly visual when it comes to Things Erotic. On the whole, I'm much more aurally or intellectually triggered -- my optic nerve is not the most direct path to my libido. 

But there are moments… and I had one of them the other day.

A thirty-something in lycra running gear (something I usually find rather off-putting) had slowed next to me to check his watch and catch his breath. I was observing, in my usual detached sort of way, that he had an unusually attractive butt/leg proportion going on, neither scrawny nor overly-buff (which seem to be the kinds that usually fill lycra tights,) when he started running again...

And the angels sang.

Just like that, I was transfixed. All pretensions of detachment flew out the window and I found myself reduced to a mindless, blinking ninny, enthralled by the very visible interplay of muscle. I was lost to a beautiful symphony of movement, wanting nothing more than to follow the music and dance.

Sadly, reality would not let me succumb to the siren song. Even if ankle and overall fitness would permit me to chase after him, responsibility would not. I had an elderly companion who could not be abandoned to the perils of dark city streets while I sprinted off in pursuit of visual bliss. (Not to mention the likelihood of stalking charges.)

Still, for a minute, I caught a glimpse of what it is like to lust by sight.

And for one fleeting, shining moment, I understood.  :-)

The Brat Conundrum

A few posts back, Bleuame urged me to put that sticky note on BG's forehead, because she likes "to brat vicariously." A perfectly reasonable statement but it got me thinking…

          When is it being a brat and when is it just being yourself?

Not me.

I've certainly got a smart mouth -- but I do not consider myself to be "a brat." 

Teasing, flippant, sassy, heckler, yes.

Brat, no… not really.

Because my teasing isn't intended to express petulance or be irritating; I don't do it to goad or manipulate -- this is simply the way that I play. (Granted, how you react to the teasing will go a long way toward forming my opinion of you, so in that respect, it's fair to say that my actions may indeed be self-serving. But that's purely a side effect … because, trust me, the teasing continues even after my opinion is formed. ;-p)

I tease as an invitation to join me in play -- and playful is at the very heart of who I am. It's something I like about myself, my friends like about me, and that BG likes about me. So I'm really not looking to shed the habit.

Also not me.

But like anyone who teases, I sometimes miss my mark and overshoot "playful" to land smack in the middle of "lippy" instead... And "lippy" isn't really a trait that springs immediately to mind when you think of that lyrical, serene, Platonic ideal of a submissive, is it? 

In fact, I'm preeetttty sure that it lands you in most people's Brat pile… whether you meant to go there or not.

Fortunately, BG understands me well enough that the worst I've ever gotten is a silent look. (And I understand him well enough to heed the warning!) But it's slippery ground…

Maybe that's why "lyrical and serene" is the ideal -- it's a lot harder to screw up!

Unfair

2 friends in 4 weeks is 2-2 much…

It's Like This...

I've got three different posts roiling around in my head, and every single one of them refuses to come out nicely. Which would be fine and dandy if they'd just step aside and make way for something else while they percolate, but NOOOOOOOOOO…. they have to block the entire creative conduit and leave me staring helplessly at a blank page.

What these ideas don't seem to realize is that their scribe has been in Hell Month, with greatly limited hours available for transcription. I have no time for blank-page-staring, here!

Which is why you guys are getting a lot of image posts lately.

Thank you for hanging in there with me… the end is in sight!

Meanwhile, have another one:  ;-)

An Unfinished Sentence

"When I arrive, I want the new toys already laid out on the table for my inspection"

The words, "And if I deem them to be good, I shall wield them with my mighty hand" went unspoken…, but apparently summarized the major component of his plan.

I think he broke all my lady parts.

    It was lovely. :-)

Saturday Morning Lesson (pure vanilla)

Women with vertigo are not at their best working on their backs under a jacked up car.

That is all.

(This, but without the fashionable jeans
or the comfy cushion.)

Wednesday Wisdom

SP assures me this is true.

A Tangled Thread

This one is kind of an abstruse ponder, and nothing that really needs an answer even, but much in the way that greengirl got wondering about how doms truly feel about subs, I got wondering about our wants, needs, and desires in this world of BDSM -- how mutable are they, really?

I'm not talking here about the normal fluctuations of degree that are built into every relationship. What I'm pondering are the inherent, foundational definitions we all carry within our heads. 

Just how granular do these things get?

For example, BG likes bondage, dominance, and sadism… but does he express those things differently with me than he has with previous subs? Are there particular actions he has to take to satisfy those needs? Or could an entirely different set of behaviors quench those urges, instead?

Is the devil in the details or the overarching theme?

It's a bit of an odd question to ponder, I realize, because every relationship changes and grows, just as every new relationship is different from the ones that came before. So there will always be some degree of fluctuation and change -- I get that. It can also be a bit tricky to pick apart the threads of wants and needs, because you can only go so long with having your wants neglected before satisfying at least some of them becomes a need. They are distinct, yet entwined.

I think it's this very complexity that makes me so curious, tho'. It makes me wonder about what this all really looks like at the deepest level, beneath the snarls and tangles - at the place where our definitions live.

Do we enjoy domination and submission in whatever form our relationship gives it?

Or do we need very specific behaviors to quiet the voices?

My Brain Sometimes Alarms Me

This fell off of my deconstructed capris the other day:

The thought occurred to me that maybe I should use it to bedazzle my butt plug...

        …

        … …

        … … … 

                  okay, maybe not…

But I certainly got a kick out of imagining the look on his face!

If You Were Here Now

You might see this…

(except, of course, my legs are longer… ;-p)

Happy Friday, Everyone!

(AND it's Half-way Through Hell Month, but that's just me personally.

I should be able to return to my regularly-scheduled [i.e. completely erratic] 

posting fairly soon now! Thanks for your patience.)

Tips From Hell, #8

To Drain a Soul:

1- Find someone who only values one portion of themselves.

For our example, we'll use a person who only likes their mind.

To make sure there is no hidden complacency about appearance, we'll use a woman. Women are your best bet, because they rarely think their looks are sufficient -- but to make even more certain, however, have that woman be past her prime. (If you can find one who's obese, even better…)

Don't forget to check and make sure she's not overly fond of the personality she has to work with, either. You don't want any unwarranted self-esteem getting in the way. Do not exceed an overall neutral perspective. For example, if your subject has truly good friends, be sure that her romantic life has never played out successfully. This will ensure that she feels inadequate and possibly even inept. 

2- Beleaguer that which is valued.

The object here is to remove all faith the subject might have in themselves. Set the person up for repeated failures. If you've chosen a subject who values their mind, mess with it.  Make them feel stupid and inadequate by ensuring that they are given ONLY tasks they are unfamiliar with and unable to successfully complete in a timely fashion. Surround them with impatient, testy people who question what is taking them so long and why the task wasn't given to someone who knows what they are doing. 

Be vigilant, however! Do not let any small triumphs slip in to bolster the subject's courage. They must not be allowed to succeed at anything.

3- Enlist the subject's Inner Critic.

The inner critic is your most valuable ally. 

Make sure it is armed with a list of particularly perjorative adjectives to murmur incessantly.

4 - Deprive the person of sleep.

Do not skip this step! 

Sleep deprivation is an important part in breaking down a person's defenses. If you cannot create a situation where the subject must physically stay up for long hours, then be sure they get broken, unrestful sleep. Worries, phobias, the inner critic, even loud neighbors and excessive heat… all of these should do the trick.

5- Remove supports.

Effective action here will be dependent on the subject. 

You might have a supervisor's child get sick so they are not available for consultation. Perhaps a friend might pass away. Is there someone this person relies on to help them keep their balance? Have that person reach out during a time when the subject is unaware that their phone is off. (This is a two-fer. Not only will the subject be disappointed, but they'll feel stupid, as well. BONUS!) If there's a significant other in the picture, be SURE to have the s/o cancel a much-counted-on date.

6- Keep up the pace.

You don't want to give the subject any time to recover, so be sure to stay on top of the beleaguering. It must be constant and unending.

6a- Watch the calendar!

Whatever you do, don't schedule a drain near any holidays.

Holidays give your subject the time to rest and relax, thus bolstering their defenses.

R&R is the enemy of the soul-drain.

It's Tuesday

And already this is a hell of a long week…

A Quandary

Every now and again, it becomes neccessary to work on my posture.

It's not totally wretched… both Mom and Dad were sticklers for comportment so it's pretty ingrained in me to straighten up. It's not like dowager's hump is imminent or anything quite so dire… But when I get stressed, my shoulders tense and pull up toward my ears. 

(C'mon, raise your hands. I know I'm not alone in this.)

This gives me bunchy neck muscles, which segue into headaches, plus it's plain ol' unattractive. But when things are hectic and stressful, relaxed trapezius muscles are the last thing on a person's mind. So a vicious circle of tightening, hurting, and tightening more ensues. (lather, rinse, repeat…)

These past couple of weeks, I've been practically battering my earlobes with my shoulders, I've been so frazzled and wound tight. 

Time for renewed action!

  I broke out my nice little cron script that reminds me to drop my shoulders…, but that only works when I'm smack in front of my computer.

  I've pasted little sticky notes in various strategic points around my house.

   I chant, "Down and Back" as often as I can remember to, trying to embed the mantra into my subconscious.

It all helps, but only for brief periods at a time.

I triumph in small battles but stress may yet win the war…

Then Date Night rolls around…

Oh, good! This should help me relax, right?

Let me ask you, oh fellow subs…

What do your shoulders do when he has The Grip of Death on your breasts?

*sigh*

I'm certainly not about to ask him to stop -- that would be both silly and counter-productive. 

I enjoy all the other stuff that comes along with the pain, after all.

But it would be nice to figure out a way to respond that doesn't undo all my hard-fought efforts of the previous week...

Do you think he'd mind if I put a sticky note on his forehead?

Summer Pleasures #6

Wearing white t-shirts…

A Typical August Weekend

Friday evening:

I decided that cooking dinner was just not on the books after the week I'd had and took myself off to the local restaurant. (Yes, I said "the" local restaurant.) I was quite prepared to have fish and chips but the food gods smiled on me and I was able to gorge myself on chowder and fritters, instead. (*Happy Girl*)

When not snarfing my food, I enjoyed watching the other patrons, particularly the "mature" family matriarch who marched in wearing spanking clean polyester pants with matching windbreaker -- and equally dazzling sneakers  -- and the biggest set of headphones I've ever seen outside a recording studio. 

   Which she did not remove at any point during the meal. 

   Her family simply conversed around her.

That kept my imagination occupied for a while...

Saturday:

I lingered over my two cups of coffee and peach muffins before finally deciding that I really could not miss the farmers market again. The thumb-sized snacking blackberries were nearly out of season, plus I wanted to make another batch of peach muffins to stock the freezer. (Veggies were not needed, as I'd stopped by my favorite, "Everything for Fifty Cents!" roadside table the night before and picked up $5 worth of fresh corn, squash, tomatoes, and green beans -- which filled two bags…) 

After stowing all produce safely away (and consuming a restorative tomato sandwich,) I headed out to the grocery store, taking the most circuitous route possible in order to avoid beach traffic. 

Came home via the iced cappuccino place, because weekend.

Commenced cooking.

   Sauteed Corn with Bacon and Balsamic Onions

   Squash, Bacon, and Mozzarella Quiche (with new crust recipe)

That evening, I contemplated going to the county fair but realized that I had already missed both the horse and ox pulls. Could not whip up enough interest to justify paying an $8 entrance fee simply to eat my annual corn dog and look at chickens and pigs, even if they are wearing blue ribbons. 

Altho' I could also get strawberry shortcake, too...

   Hmmmm… thinking, thinking…

   Nope. 

Dined healthfully at home instead, then spent the evening finishing a terrific book which had me laughing out loud. (Laughter is good for a person.)

Sunday:

Made more peach muffins, disposing of any misshapen ones immediately. o:-)

Then tackled The Lawn -- a thing which could no longer be ignored.

I pushed, puffed, panted, limped, and cut for 3 hours, cursing my fractured/sprained ankle and wondering why the heck I haven't just fixed the rider. (I know the answer but thinking about my lack of financial wherewithal does not improve my mood, so I feign ignorance…) 

Left the back field for another day. Too hot and my ankle was screaming.

Cleaned up and ate another restorative tomato sandwich 

   (accompanied by cold cucumber soup this time.)

Grabbed an iced coffee and another good book and retired to the chair under tree.

Watched my neighbor's pig snuffle at the freshly agitated denizens of my lawn. 

   (See? who needs to pay entrance prices?)

Had quiche for dinner, followed by a trip to DQ for a banana cream pie blizzard.

Because I'd mowed for 3 hours on a bad ankle, dammit.

Listened to the crickets, wished that weekends could be longer, and went to bed.

Dreamed of next weekend already.

Oh, and! Apropos of nothing….

I just realized:

not quite a corn dog but still,
a thing well worth eating!

Here She Goes Again!

So…

He's added something to his wish list for the future… and much like when he broached the “slut under the table” scenario, I'm struggling.

Unlike the table thing, however, I find no heat in this wish at all. Usually, even if I can’t jump right on board with his ideas, I can at least understand them. I can see them as hot, even if it’s a heat that doesn't touch me.

This one leaves me cold, however.

He's looking at a hood.

A very pretty lace hood, I grant you.

But a hood.

And that, once again, is sufficiently objectifying that I’m really not comfortable. 

Yet, on the other hand, it’s not the kind of thing that I feel I can fairly call “Limit!” on, either. I've always believed that anything short of a hard limit needs to be tried before I squawk too loudly. (You know, like a child with a new vegetable…) 

BG says the point of the mask is not objectification, it's the mystery, the hint of forbidden naughtiness that it evokes. Which I guess I can see… sorta.

SP offered an explanation with a slightly different slant: 

"The anonymity is fake and is sexy only because it is fake. If my woman came up to me wearing a mask and started to blow me, it would be very sexy. If it were someone I did not know, I would politely retire, and certainly would not have her blow me." 

Yeah, I guess I can see that too…

Still, this is dancing on the trigger edge of a whole bunch of sensitivities. 

There's distressed vanity, fear of lashing out in self-protective defense, fear of retreating so far into my crustacean's carapace that I might get stuck in the back corner… and fear that something I may find deeply unpleasant might become a regular feature on his request list.

Of course, I also fret that my worries cause me to do a disservice to him, as well. He has never, ever, made me feel belittled or dehumanized during any scene we've played together. I know I've said this before but he is phenomenal at using precisely the right words to keep us both right smack in the mood he wants. 

And after all, look how popular the slut sous la table has become with each of us, despite my nearly-identical initial fears. Proof that my imagination usually paints a picture that is far, far worse than reality.

But still…

hood…

(Remind me of this angst next year when I'm posting regularly about wearing my little hood… probably under the table!)

Dog Days of Summer

It's hot, it's Hot, it's HOT…!!!

        (*whine, whine, whine*)

Too hot for computers, too hot to write, too hot for anything but lounging in the shade.

      (and maybe surreptitiously checking out the scenery…)

"whoa, Trixie's rockin' that new collar over there…"

On Becoming Invisible

This ramble brought to you courtesy of Dubs, who's been pondering ageism over in the comments section...  ;-D  It probably won't ring a whole lot of bells out there in reader-land but I've been thinking about it, so I'm going to share, nonetheless! 

Much like my father before me (and his mother before him,) I'm largely unfazed by growing older. There are moments, of course, when time whaps you upside the head as it rushes past, but for the most part, I trundle along happily, taking the changes in stride and not worrying too much about them all.

One change, however, is a bit hard to come to terms with: 

    Becoming invisible to the men of my own demographic.

Being a single-yet-hopeful woman of middle-age is not for the faint of heart, let me tell you.

The men that you've always considered to be members of your dating pool become less and less likely to notice that you're treading water right there next to them, because they're far too busy eye-balling the women two pools down.

This discouraging fact is particularly evident in the online dating arena, where initial meetings are virtual and prospective dates cannot see how your eyes twinkle or that you move with a fluid grace… (Clearly I'm not describing myself here, but you get the idea.) Nope, online, your hope tends to lie in pictures and numbers… and sheer dumb luck. 

It's not a total loss, of course, Being summarily eliminated because of age takes care of having to weed out the shallow men -- they've already done that that for you. But conversely, it is frustrating not to be given even a chance to dazzle with a sparkling personality! (;-p) After all, it's one thing to not really enjoy a party, but we'd all like to be at least let into the room, to circulate a bit and make up our own minds about whether we want to stay or not.

It may sound ridiculous if you've never had to run this particular gamut, but that was one of the things about BG that most impressed me from the start - that he was looking within in his own pool. Because at the time we met, he was newly-single (at not quite a year,) and fifty … tall, trim, intelligent, and good looking. On the surface, he was someone you'd expect to see browsing in the 30-something chicky-babe range that most of his compatriots head for. So I was a bit stunned that he chose to approach this tall, pudgy, kinda plain, and very lippy 49-year old. Pleased, but stunned.

Had he not noticed the part that said I was nearly his own age?

Apparently, he had, however, and it didn't matter-- because he found me "intriguing" and considered it "refreshing to find someone with a personality." 

       w00t!! He's not a cliche!!!

Now, don't get me wrong - I'm not saying that age differences are bad or that everyone should stay strictly within their own age bracket. That would be silly and incorrect. After all, I myself have had beaux ranging from 29 years older to 12 years younger. People fit together in the darndest combinations and that's fantastic. 

Nor am I saying all guys do this -- obviously they don't. 

But there is a definite tendency…

And being invisible…? 

That part is hard.