Tell me I’m something beautiful. Something precious. Something you would never want to part with. Because, ironically, it’s the only way you’re really going to be able to share me.

It’s not that I want to imagine that the process of sharing, of lending me out, is painful to you. I want you to enjoy it. I want you to do it because it turns you on. Moreover, I want to do it because the way it turns you on also turns me on a lot. Not to mention the way it turns me on, well.

It’s just that somewhere in the midst of someone else’s hands moving over me as I respond to someone else’s words, I’ll start to lose a bit of myself and who I am when we play like this. And so to be told those things, it’s an anchor. It’s something I can attach myself to and steel myself for the next blow. 



Remember how I told you all that I said something to that guy in my frat that may have even dashed our hopes at just friendship? Well, I’ve been reconciled, as one of my friends called it. Part of me is glad it’s been essentially resolved, part of me is sort of embarrassed about the whole thing. 

Here are the facts:

  • That guy from my frat and I hooked up maybe two weeks ago. He came out with a group of friends and I and, after partying, he realized he’d left something of his in my room. We wound up messing around a little bit. Oops.
  • After a few days of just generally being awkward, I went out on that ill-fated night and wound up trying to essentially pick him up. Unfortunately, this did not alleviate the awkwardness and instead just made us more awkward. Exponentially more awkward.
  • I let some time pass and gave the situation room to breathe and, on Friday, we schedule to go get brunch together on Saturday to “reconcile stuff”. This will basically consist of me apologizing to him over and over, something he insists that I do not need to do.
  • I catch him out the night before reconciliation brunch and wind up drinking a little too much and, once again, trying to get him in my pants.
  • I literally do not know why I keep doing this. One, I’m not even that into him. Two, it’s totally screwing with the friendship. Three, it’s just making things harder on me and I know it. In the words of my friend, “I think drunk Ivy likes to give sober Ivy some adversity to overcome.” Great.
  • We go to brunch the next morning where I apologize profusely and, when I don’t apologize profusely, I make the most awkward conversation known to man. But, God, that kid is forgiving.

Moral of the story: Sometimes it’s just better to be friends with unfulfilled sexual tension.


I was out last night at a party for one of my friends. Among the guests there was her boyfriend, who I had not previously met for longer than a brief encounter as he is a recent graduate. 

We wound up talking and I told him that I thought he and my friend looked sweet together. You know, stuff people say to be nice. So, out of the blue, he asks me in response, “do you have a boyfriend?”

I shrug. “Nope.”

“Why not?” He asked.

I blinked. “I just…don’t.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he replied, “I’m sure you’ll find somebody soon.”

“I wasn’t under the impression I was worried,” I said.

So, as you guys all know, I don’t currently have a primary. Sometimes, that upsets me a little, especially when I’m exploring the grey area or people I’m with do have primaries and I sort of feel unsure of what to do to sort of match in that situation.

But, for God’s sake, this guy doesn’t know that. So he’s assuming I’m some poor single girl collapsing into the fact that I don’t have a man. And he thought that what he said would be encouraging. As if I am so dependent on other men’s approval of my availability that I would not assume that I was worthy of male attention unless he or someone similar provided reassurance. 

Seriously. Come suck my dick. Sometimes being single sucks, but being told by people like you that I’m worthy of having a significant other makes you suck ten times harder. 


I like buckles. They’re considerably neater. They even feel a little bit institutional. That rubs me the right way.


I’ve unfortunately never been dominated or punished by someone while they were wearing the sort of shirt with sleeves that they would need to roll up. This is regrettable.

I like the immediacy of just being thrown over someone’s lap and spanked. The idea of not having to tend to too many articles of clothing besides some of my own appeals to me in the sense of instant gratification. 

However, there’s something so perfectly condescending about having to wait for someone to roll up the sleeves of their shirt. It kind of makes me tremble and feel terribly small.

In a good way.


I think I’d like to take a bath in front of someone one day. I’ve taken showers with people before, but never baths.

But the thing is here that I don’t want to take it so much with you as I do in front of you. I want to be watched, scrutinized. I don’t want to be helped, just sort of monitored.

It’s a barely sexual thing, really. If you touch yourself or shove your cock down my throat, you’ll honestly ruin it. Same with grabbing my hair and riding my face, if you’re of that gender. It’s an appeal to the vague little girly leanings I have sometimes. Maybe.

But I just want you to watch and exercise some restraint. I just want to feel like I’m under glass sometimes. And there’s always time for that other stuff later.