Image submitted by herdirtylittleheart.
Craftsmate just saw this picture and asked if I wanted a little deer friend.
Squealing.
kitty
Since I’ve been brave lately.
This is my tail, gifted by Craftsmate.
It’s fake fur, attaches to the handle of my butt plug and makes me blush like no other.
Meow.
“Awww,” Craftsmate said when he saw whyexactly’s comment. “He thinks you’re already housebroken. But that’s just not true.”
“Honey, look what turned up when I was looking for Noboru Wataya.”
Ugh the damn cat.
That book gave me so much grief because I was like oh God but what about the cat these sideplots are overwhelming because I am already worried about this damn cat.
Seriously, his wife was not worth finding. Just find your freaking cat, go home and make some more pasta, Toru. And don’t answer the damn phone. There’s only uncomfortable phone sex on the other end of that thing.
And then that little crazy locked him in the well. And I was like oh come on puberty’s hard but we all handled it so get over yourself and let the poor guy out.
And there’s that awful thing with the skin God no stop it’s such a good book but ugh.
I can’t. I just can’t. The book is fabulous, but it’s just all anxiety for me.
Craftsmate had made me dinner and, after serving himself, put my plate on the floor. I got down onto my knees and went to start eating when he interrupted me.
“Not yet,” he said, picking up the roll of duct tape and taping my hands into little fists.
I huffed, pawing my napkin closer before gingerly lowering my face down to pick up a piece of broccoli.
Craftsmate watched for a few minutes with a smirk on his face as I carefully avoided getting food on my face as best as I could. All of a sudden, he reached forward and grabbed my hair.
“That’s not how kitties eat,” he insisted before shoving my face deep into the plate, covering it in food and sauce. “Kitties are messier, like this.” He pushed down a bit longer, shaking my head against the plate before pulling me up.
I stifled a whimper and cursed at him. Getting this vulnerable still scares me sometimes. I’m frightened when things start to get messy, especially when it comes to how much I enjoy it.
My head processes this sort of stuff in a way that figures that if I express outrage my partner will do it again without me having to ask. But this time, I had to.
“Do that again?” I choked out. I hated having to admit I liked it. I was ashamed to admit I wanted it. But, he complied, reaching up and shoving my face into the food once more.
“Good kitty,” he murmured as he practically wiped the dish with my face.
Without another word, I swallowed my pride and started eating.
Meow.
Cats Don’t Do the Dishes, Part Two
When I got into Craftsmate’s room, I set my clothes down on the floor down by the door and he approached me, giving me a hug and smoothing my hair back. I was nervous, but I showed him the plug in my ass, pushing my panties aside so he could see the handle.
From his box of random crafts supplies, he pulled out a piece of leather and tied it to the end of my plug. He had been hinting a bit at the notion of having me be a pet and I had expressed interest. “There you go, kitty, you’ve got a tail,” he said and patted my ass. “Now, I’m going to make dinner and you can clean what I’ve left in the sink.”
I huffed. “But cats don’t do the dishes. You’re conflating fantasies.” Nonetheless, he made me put an apron over my basically naked body and leashed me to the sink.
At one point, there was a knock on the door and I managed to work the leash off and run into his bedroom. It was, of all people, his neighbor The Prodigy looking to borrow some nutmeg. Once she had left, he went into the bedroom, brought me back out into the kitchen, and tied the leash back onto the sink.
“I love Ivy. She’s a pistol."
I spent more than five minutes with my good friend’s current manfriend last night for the first time. And sometime during the night, he turned to my friend and said this.
I’m flattered, but ugh…I’m always the pistol. Or the character.
Ever since I was a little girl I intimidated the shit out of most men. Because I was smart and I was quick and I could head them off at the pass like no other. And I’m blunt and a little boisterous sometimes and I’ve been (really flatteringly) compared to Woody Allen.
Which is super if you’re a man, it seems. But it sends your average guy running for the hills. Women are mostly good with it, but God it’s hard finding available lesbians/bi girls on this campus (they’re either too close a friend or just unbearable or in a relationship).
And so I know the payoff is I’ll hopefully find someone who can handle all the (second time using it on this blog today) chutzpah, but it’s so frustrating to make a quip and have some guy take it totally seriously or have it go over their heads or to have them just write me off as a character or, eugh, a pistol.
kitten
photo: ellen von unwerth
vanity fair 2011