Allow me to reintroduce myself.
My name is boobs.
B-double o-b’s.
I used to move snowflakes by the o-z.
lace
If you really want out, just find the door and you can leave.
Seriously. Just go over to the door, it’s not even locked.
No hassle at all.
I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.
And if I find you’re still here, I’ll assume you’ve decided to stay.
You said it had a lot to do with where our blood was at the time. And where it wasn’t. And how we were thinking based on its distribution.
I can be the queen of terrible foresight. I’m the master of closing doors, of burning bridges, of taking exactly the worst opportunities. For someone who spends a lot of time thinking things over, I can be so thoughtless. I seem, sometimes, to be ruled by an ever-fluctuating logic of rules that continue to change when I never even knew the original doctrine.
And so I suppose a lot of it is just instinct. Everywhere else, I am thoughtful, careful, prepared. But, in this domain, I’m ruled by where the blood is, by the way the hair stands up on my skin, by the sort of electricity in my bones that you sometimes feel just after it has rained and, now, more often I tend to feel around people with stormy forecasts.
“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.” – George Orwell, 1984.
While by no measure mute, Switch isn’t usually a very outspoken person in public situations. By this I mean he’s usually not one to speak his mind, to get too blunt. He’s fairly polite.
So, it’s even sexier when he does stuff like shoving me up against the wall of his place once we’re alone after being out with other people, grabs me through my clothes as if he’s going to tear right through them and murmurs in my ear, “I love when I finally get my hands on you”.
Because contrasts are hot.
“I think Pretty wants her pussy eaten now.”
The difficult part about punishing Switch is that he’s usually really into whatever the punishment is. The boy is crazy about eating pussy, so it’s not really that much of a disciplinary tactic. It’s the same problem I have. Punishments are easily just mean rewards.
He tugged my shorts down and went for my panties next. When his fingers looped under the waist, I had a thought and slapped his hands away. “No, I don’t think you’ve earned that.” I spread my legs over his shoulders, “over the panties. Bad boys don’t get Pretty’s pussy.”
Resigned, he licked through the lace with this terribly earnest expression on his face. He wanted to be good for me. And, usually being a submissive myself, I could understand completely what he was going through and appreciate it.
“Okay, fine, you win,” I muttered after a few minutes and pulled my panties aside.
I guess I’m just a little bit of a pushover.
“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
“Ah! Do you have to be sensual to be human?”
“Certainly, Madame. Pity is in the guts, just as tenderness is on the skin.”
– Anatole France, The Red Lily.
She’d been horrible. Incorrigible, careless, bratty.
The easy thing to do would just be to punish her, to smack that stockinged ass until she wailed and apologized. But the effects of that sort of correction were fast becoming short-lived. ‘Sorry’ didn’t seem to extend beyond the moment of forgiveness. She made the same comments, the same coy quips, the same little acts of insubordination intentionally designed to provoke.
And so the best thing to do is to leave her that way. To make her wait, to forbid her from easing the angles of her back and knees, to let her cry and learn to become patient when suddenly things are no longer about her. A surefire way to reform a brat is to deny her attention to the point that contact becomes so rare and cherished that she will not do anything to provoke further action. Waiting has a profound and sobering effect on perspective.
This is the part where one half of you betrays the other. The part where the top’s reticence smells the bottom’s vehement and eager disagreement. The part where you realize that though your brain can will your arms to pull back ad your body to squirm, it can’t seem to will away the wet enthusiasm your cunt is expressing. This is, undoubtedly, their favorite part.