Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Adult Toy Story, Part 2: When The Empress Met Captain Strap-On

Disclaimer: Because I never know who's reading this (and because I wouldn't want to discourage any potential lovers, play partners, or fuck knows, boyfriends, etc.)... If you deal with me honestly and up front with no bullshit, what passes between us is private--no names, no details except, perhaps, for a, "Sacre merde, WHAT A NIGHT! HE WAS AWESOME!" and a blissed out smile for a couple of days. Or daze, in my case. HOWEVER... if you behave as this MORON has, you're fair game and will be given an appropriate nickname to protect your guilty arse because, hey, I don't want to get sued. Now that we understand each other... read on...

Well, last week I related how Captain Strap-on and I first made first contact and the trip to the Amazing Superstore. Tonight's episode is our "first date."

So, there I was, nicely dressed (the size 24 painted & decced-out jeans that are such a triumph to wear--20 fucking years since I've been able to wear that small a size!), denim halter that shaped and molded and displayed the girls, and a black cardigan over it. Underneath... push up black bra and very sexy lace panties. Not an outfit that screams, "LET ME FUCK YOUR ARSE!" but a tasteful, casual Saturday night ensemble that I could wear in front of my mother in the nursing home and not ilicit any comments about how I looked. Besides, I can't do the whole contrived thing--doesn't work.

Anyway, I'm sitting at the edge of my Mum's bed in the nursing home, chatting with her while I'm doing my makeup, and Daffy Duck screams from my phone: text message. He gets into an accident while we're texting.

Not a good start.

So, it's decided that I'm meeting him in Salem. Not a problem. After a decent interval, I say good night to Mum, give her a hug and a kiss, and head off to meet Captain Strap-on in Salem.

It's a beautiful night... clear, hint of a chill, but still warm, and the drive is lovely. This is my favorite time of year, honestly... the world feels alive and there's something moving in my soul. My eternal restlessness is there, right on the surface, and I can hear the call of the wild geese. In short, I am ready for adventure.

Well, of course, I get turned around in Salem (I always do. There has to be a ley line or something there that just fucks with my sense of direction). Finally, get things sorted, and there he is, heading up the street to meet me.

Now, without giving away seriously private details that could complicate life... Capt. Strap-on is VERY cute. Smidge taller than I, brown eyes, dark hair, nice bod. THICK Boston accent, raspy voice... masculine voice. VERY, VERY masculine. Very working class, which is cool with me--that's my background, and honestly, I get on with guys from the neighborhood. I know The Code, I know the lingo, and I'm down with it. I'm feeling the attraction.

We stopped to grab coffee and headed over to the beach in Beverly, take a short walk, and talk. And talk. And talk. I like him immediately--funny, honest, up front. We get on the subject of our intended tryst, and he asks me why I want to do this, and I answer, "Well, it's a long-time fantasy. It's a little about power and the exchange, and I can't really explain it further."

And I can't, honestly. All I know is that very thought of it turns me on. REALLY turns me on. It's about control.., about being the one behind the wheel, calling the shots.

Now, understand that in a d/s situation, the submissive is the one in control. The domme is in charge, making decisions and directing the action, but the sub has final say. A good top LISTENS, observes, and decides where to take the scene, but the sub is in control of what is done to their body, end of story. This is what keeps it a game and from becoming rape.

Now, I've been raped. It's no fun. Saying no, and having someone keep going... unpleasant. Has ugly long-term side effects on the psyche. The difference between a real rape and a rape game is about control and communication. This is the basis for all good sex, yes, but especially if you're going to venture off the beaten track and try some of the more exotic forms.

He had a right to ask me this question--it was his body that was going to be "on the bottom." It was, literally, his ass. He had a right to know why I wanted to take a fake cock, lube it up, and fuck his ass. I mean, for all he knew, I was some psychotic bitch looking to take revenge for her life out on an unsuspecting submissive.

Not as far-fetched as it sounds. I've been the sub in that situation, and I know what it's like to have someone that you love and trust take their revenge on the world out on you. This is why I am no longer married.

So we have the discussion of what we're hoping to do with each other, while also talking about our lives. I find out he has three kids; obviously loves them, and everything is no copacetic with the youngest. More than that, I'm not sharing. He asks about Mum and the sitch there, and I explain. We also talk about our living situations: both of us living with family. Joy!

First hurdle--we need to find a place to do this. Now, I have access to my house (of course) and a relatively large amount of privacy with Mum in the nursing home. The problem is that Hell's Vestibule is a cluttered fucking mess (not dirty, but cluttered and dusty), and I find it utterly humiliating to bring somone in there. My room is under renos right now (live with a hoarder and an alcoholic--there is a reason my depression took so long to break), and the rest of the house... yeah. He is temporarily living with his parents while he gets his living situation worked out.

We decide we're going to go through with this the following day; he has a commitment in the morning, and then we'll figure it all out in the afternoon. We get back in the car, he checks out the purchases from Amazing, approves thoroughly. I drop him off, we kiss with incredible intensity (so intense I forgot to put the damn car in park and almost drove into a wall when he went to get out--never done anything that blonde), with the promise of the following day.

I start getting text messages before I'm even out of Salem. At one point, I pull over and offer to come back and get him, we're getting that intense (and the kisses were that good).

All is well. All is wonderful--tomorrow, we do this.

Right.

*sigh*

So... Sunday. We both oversleep, he has to go and look at his damaged truck, and then it's decided that going to NH can't happen, so he's going to come down to my place. I launch into a frenzy of cleaning. I mean, I MUCKED OUT. It was ridiculous. I mean, I'd done the bedroom the night before, anyway, but I went to town with the clutter, trying to get things as bearable as possible. I am sneezing and wheezing from the dust, but it's all good. So, he's going to be on the 8:00 train from Salem, I'm going to pick him up at Sullivan, make a stop at CVS for a couple of things, and then... fulfillment.

I get a text from him that his train's running late; I think to ask if he's allergic to cats. He is; runs home to get his allergy pills and is out of them; he will fill them the next day and we postpone.

I am NOT happy. So NOT happy, but I roll with it.

Monday, I pick up Mum from dialysis, run her back to the nursing home in my pjs, fresh out of the shower and carrying my going out clothes. I get dressed in the bathroom in her room, and come out to get an appreciative look from the guy visiting his mum in the next bed and total disapproval from my Mum because I can tell she finds the outfit too provocative.

SCORE!

Now, understand that just because I'm a fat chick, does not mean I cannot dress sexy and actually look sexy. There is a way to do it tastefully--make sure that exposed flesh is the good kind, not the disgusting kind (belly shirts on fat girls should be illegal, end of story--they're disgusting. If I want to look at rolls, I'll go to a bakery, dammit)--so I had the right foundation (push-up lace underwire bra with matching panties; lace footless tights; black mid-length skirt; white damask corset top with a pink shrug over it, allowing a view of the decolletage without exposing my yet-untoned arms. Hair long and curly and soft, makeup just enough. I kissed Mum goodnight, texted him I was on my way, and out I went.

Now, I'm leaving from Malden. I head to Saugus and Route 1, making a stop at the CVS for a couple of things (I'd bought him lingerie--very trashy, very sexy; he wanted the whole feminization, he was going to get it)--lipstick for him and eyeliner (I don't mind sharing blush and eyeshadow, but somethings... Nah). I get there and my phone screams. He's having an issue--his dad has ben rushed to the hospital. I sit in the car, trying not to scream. The phone goes off again--forget about it, everything's fine, come on up.

OK! Off I go! Salem-ho!

I pick him up, and off we go to Amazing Superstore in Danvers because a) he has been paid and b) he wants a proper strap-on. I have no problem with this, and as he is paying for the toy, who am I to argue? All the time, we're yapping along about what's going on in our lives and switching the stations on the radio. We have similar tastes in music--very amusing, and a good sign.

We get to the lot where Amazing is--connected to a hotel and bar--and he says, "What's So-and-So's truck doing here?" with a mild look of panic on his face.

To which I reply, "I don't know. I don't know So-and-So, so he didn't check in with me."

This gets me A Look. He has already had to come to terms with the fact that I am a smartass (or a smahtahssss as we pronounce it), and he's not up for it ATM. So he asks how much it is, gives me cash, and in I go. In I strut, I should say.

Now, the Amazing in Danvers is much bigger than the one in Somerville--roomier, more merch. Set up differently, too, so instead of being able to make a beeline for the section wherein will be found my goal purchase, I must shop around.

Sex shops are interesting places. I'm always fascinated to watch how people behave in them--the other shoppers. Now, when I go in, I get excited. I mean, serious hormone rush to the cunt and nips, and I stalk & strut, usually with an amused little smirk on my face.

I must put out some kind of pheromone, too, because someone ALWAYS comes on to me, or at least checks me out. It's fun. I wish everyday could be like that.

So, I finally make a decision after about ten minutes of comparison: they had a lovely model that could be adjusted to whatever angle would feel best for the recipient. And it was only $29.99! (Plus tax, of course.)

What made me laugh--it was literally a big black cock. Yep. Not black as in African American, but black as in basic black. Imposing looking. Only 8", but still impressive.

And yes, when I went to pay for it, the girl behind the counter told me it was non-returnable. I tried not to laugh, and for once, I didn't mention Celebricrush Jim. I was too distracted--I was gonna get laid!!!!!! Gonna get the fantasy come true!!! Hell yes, and HALLELUJAH!

So, I go strutting back out to the car where Captain Strap-on is anxiously awaiting my return, hand him his change and receipt--"Do you really think I'm going to try to return this?"--and he insists on seeing it. (Couldn't blame him; it's his ass.)

Now, I have him direct me out of the parking lot and off to the motel. At which point, his phone goes off. His sister. His dad has really had a heart attack. Back to Salem.

Argh. *slams head on the desk* *slams head on the desk* *slams head on the desk*

"Can you try this on when you get home? And send me a picture? I'm going to need it to get through tonight."

I get him back to his house, he climbs all over me saying good-bye (fuck, I like the way he kisses!), and I head home, utterly frustrated, thoroughly turned on, and in possession of a 8" strap-on.

Part 3... in Which The Empress Engages in a Little DIY and Begins to Snell a Rat

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