I am insecurely attached.

In my Psych 101 class freshman year of college we learned about attachment theory and I see it pop up every couple of months in cultural and psychologically slanted articles about the state of affairs in relationships.  The theory, in its most basic form, is how you attached to your caregivers as a child affects your behavior and feelings in adult relationships.

Originally the researchers were only looking at it in terms of childhood development, but in the late 80’s folks began to see similarities in adult relationship styles.  If you were insecurely attached to your mother, for example, you’d be more likely to display similar characteristics in your romantic relationships.

There are four main types identified in adults:

  • secure
  • anxious-preoccupied
  • dismissive-avoidant
  • fearful-avoidant

The bottom 3 are all categorized as “insecure attachment” and I — lucky me — am a couple of those: fearful-avoidant in general and romantically and dismissive-avoidant with my mother and closest friends (according to this really cool test).

“People who are fearfully avoidant in their relationships are uncomfortable depending on others and serving as an attachment figure. Moreover, they worry that others may not be there emotionally when they are most needed.”  Dismissive-avoidant types “… are also not comfortable opening up to others and depending on or having others depend on them. In addition, they are not concerned with the question of whether the other person truly cares about them.”

This understanding about myself isn’t new, but it is important because it explains my total hyperventilation when men I date don’t show up in the myriad of ways one might not show up: ignoring texts, not following up after sex, being vague about plans, commitment, their feelings, etc.  Dating is a hot bed of psychological torture for the insecurely attached among us.  We can’t handle it and it all amounts to fear of abandonment and the push-pull dilemma of going for it or pretending we don’t care.

It’s exhausting.

Enter D/s into my life.  A place where I get to dictate the rules of engagement to control for my inabilities to trust others and my ambivalence to try and I feel a little calmer about things.  Apparently I am also way more devastated when things go sideways, but for a brief period of time I feel goooood.  And it’s worth the experience in general because I get to feel safe for a change.

Things with the Not liberal Liberal Sub have waned significantly since his visit.  I have stopped texting him because I have nothing to say.  He must be feeling similarly, though he did pop a text my way yesterday wishing me a happy day.

It’s just a matter of time before we alert one another to our feelings for one another.  “It was lovely meeting you.  I had a great time.  I don’t think we should pursue anything romantic or otherwise kinky together.  I’d be down for a glass of wine in London, though, if you’re around.”

So now it’s February and my self-assigned January Man Ban is over with and I’m talking to a sexy 39 yo vanilla guy that I kinda dig with ever-changing facial hair, random hot guys who aren’t really worth my time, and staring down at all my insecure attachment trappings thinking, “I got my eye on you, assholes.”

A couple of years ago I realized the benefits of applying the high standards of my D/s life to my vanilla one.  As a D-type I take less shit, I may even be slightly more securely attached, and after this last experience with a demanding and less-than-self-aware sub I feel even more armed to identify behaviors and character traits I don’t want. Insecure-attachment style or not.

If what I really and truly want is a fulfilling partnership replete with kinky sex and tender love then only I can choose for that.  My attachment style is the gauntlet, my will my armor.  Let’s see how I do.

Cheers.

[Ed. Note: If you’d like to read more about attachment theory, read this.]

 

February Photofest

I’ve made up my mind.

I haven’t heard from him. He gave a shit, beige-colored farewell – if I squint at it really hard.

It has become so easy: this man has not earned me.

Byeeee.
February Photofest

My gut said No.

I am not a good listener

when she says no

Twisting, turning, trying so hard

to be polite ohhhh

I must be mistaken, sure, yes, ok

until the sun rises on tangled hair and

deflated balloons and

whisker rash and

an urge to go home

Then the sun rises again

and she hears it true

No, no thank you

that won’t do

It’s you, it’s you, it’s you

We did not meet today.

 

 

February Photofest

I am not an object.

One of the biggest hurdles in my search for a submissive partner is that I am ultimately a non-person to him.  I am a means to an end to fulfill his fantasy of being dominated.  My personhood is irrelevant; I just need to be willing and able and breathing and he’s good to go.

What I need out of the dynamic isn’t of interest to him, he assumes that what he gets off on I am the natural compliment to it.  He’s into CFNM¹?  Then I must love it, too.  He likes to be choked?  Then I must be looking for every opportunity to grab his throat.  He wants to be powerless?  Then I love making every decision.  He is a kamikaze fly looking for any web he can find.

He feels such freedom from the pressures of performance that it is lost on him that now I am pressured to perform for him.  It’s exhausting and bossy and narrow minded and it turns me right the fuck off.  It makes me pissy and resentful and is typically how most first emails go.

cruelty is kindness Greetings for the day goddess the slave kneels with its head bowed down and looking to serve and suffer for u. Wish u don’t mind in making the slave suffer. It knows nothing comes for free and it is not a freebie and won’t waste ur time goddess. wish to be owned and onctolled [sic] like a tpe [sic] slave online

Hello Miss, how are you doing? Please don’t hesitate to humiliate and punish me for my tiny cock/

Hi Miss, are you interested in training an online sub from the Netherlands to follow your instructions and complete tasks to amuse you?/p – slave jack/p

good evening from Germany may this tall slave serve you well? with all my respects paul

Everyone wants something from a Domme.  It’s basically novel to approach her as if she were an actual woman, and my profiles are all very specific and have a small task buried in the text to weed out those who’d otherwise ignore my wishes.  I tell everyone exactly how to treat me.  If he doesn’t do it, I don’t respond.  And yet…

I also am very clear on not calling me an honorific, but since these men aren’t here for me they do what they like because, after all, it’s actually all about them.  They love the idea of being submissive and calling a strange, attractive woman Ma’am or Mistress, or Miss.  What do you think happens to me?  Yep: I get turned the fuck off.

My web is set, it’s beautiful and sparkles, but dandelions and leaves keep blowing onto the threads.

Looking back on our dynamic I realize now that The Neighbor was an alpha type who liked to get me to dominate him on occasion. When I bossed him around and tied up his raging erections and took his sight away with a sash, it was always on his terms.  He was ultimately in control of when we got to play that way, not me.  His game, his rules.  I was just a rube along for the ride with her heart on her sleeve.

Today I am not interested in being used like that.  I want my needs as a Domme to be equal to those of my submissive.  If I want him to undress in front of me it will be because I feel like being fucked, but can’t be bothered to undress all the way.  If I want to throttle my hot and heaving lover as I impale myself on him, then that is my prerogative and he will be thrilled to feel my fingers wrap around his neck.  If I know what I’d like to do, then I will share it.  But none of those things should happen unless they come to me naturally and in my own time.

I am not a puppet for his pleasure any more than he is mine.  We are a team, yin and yang, night and day.  We cannot truly shine without the other.

What I am distressed to find again and again are men whose own desires for sexual domination far over shadow their need to be my kind of submissive.

My experience on Friday left me feeling largely invisible.  I know he enjoyed himself – he was in suckling, choking, little bitch heaven – but I never got to my happy femdomme place.  I was being directed every step of the way on how to make him feel submissive.  I was not encouraged — or allowed — to dominate him in my own way.

It’s the difference between instructing someone on how to make your favorite meal and enjoying a delicious meal of their own choosing cooked for you by a talented chef.

But I’m thinking that it was a first date and I wasn’t planning on being intimate — it just happened — and maybe it’d be better for me in a different setting and maybe he’ll be different and we’ll be different and and and…

Hy:
I have a little fantasy that you come over before you leave and I can really experiment with our chemistry in the comfort of my own bedroom with all the things I love
Him:
When would that happen
I could come to your office for a lunch exam² tomorrow
What would you do to me in your bedroom?
Hy:
In my fantasy? Kinda late on Monday, like 10 or something. I have a brutally long day and in that fantasy is my need for releasing on someone. But it’s a fantasy. This isn’t some backhanded way of me asking you. I’m not actually sure I’d have it in me…
I am so slammed tomorrow. If we met midday, which I would enjoy regardless of what we do, I’d want you to fuck me and make me cum. You’d have a job to do. I wouldn’t overtly top you other than having you come to take care of me lol
Him:
I think I understand you
I might be able to do that
Hy:
I have a break at 3
Him:
Could maybe do 3pm
I have a fantasy of you making me get undressed in front of you while you are clothed
Also having you grab me by the throat, push me against the wall, grabbing me by the balls with your other hand and asking who they belong to wouldn’t suck either ;)
Hy:
lol
Duly noted
Him:
If I can’t tell you who can I tell?
Hy:
This is true
I’ll catalog it 😉

I toyed with several responses before I landed on “This is true; I’ll catalog it /winkyface.”  The first thing that came to mind was irritation, then distaste, and finally resentment.  I had just told him what I wanted to happen.  I’m glad I went with vague acceptance with a smiley face instead.  I prefer to remain apart and not vulnerable.

I had high hopes for the two of us and feeling invisible wasn’t one of them.  I am forever waiting for the right one to fly into my pretty little web.  I guess I’ll just admire the garden a while longer.

 

I am not an object.

 

¹: Clothed Female Naked Male

²: By “exam” he means a fantasy of his to be examined by his Domme to see if he passes muster.  This is not an interest of mine.

 

February Photofest

I am a fantasy.

I gripped his throat as I bore down on him, clawed at his chest and pinched and twisted his nipples.  My hair hung about my shoulders wild and messy, and my breasts bounced as I rode him until I wore myself out, slumped down by his side and sunk into the mattress and an alcohol-laced sleep.

In the early dawn light his hips pulsed slowly against my rump and I sighed.  I was tired — but he persisted and so I engaged.

I played with his fat morning wood not absentmindedly until he asked that I climb back on top of him.  I obliged.  Tore open the condom, rolled it on.  “Guide you in,” I told him as he lay below me with his arms above his head.

What had been wet had dried and the push in was yummy.  I rocked and he guided my hand back to his throat.  I guided his hands to my breasts.

I worked on him, gently crushing his throat with my hand and rocking my hips, punishing his little nipples.  I filled his greedy mouth with my breasts and he suckled as he curved up inside of me again and again.

I rode him until I exhausted myself and slumped down by his side, deja vu. He began to pulse against me again.  I lifted my legs over his hip and he pushed back inside of me and curled around to my breast and latched on.

Later, as he jerked himself off beside me, he whispered that he wanted me to make him my bitch, code to grab his throat again.  I looked into his eyes and felt a million miles away.  I pinched his nipples and scratched his abs, whispered to him that his jizz was mine.

He came in a tumble and soiled my hand and filled his belly button.

I dozed for a little while, spooning him.  He pulled me closer into his back and seemed to fall asleep.  My alarm went off, the sun had crested and the room was bright, the sky a light grey.  I quickly and quietly dressed as my phone chimed with my ride’s arrival.

He stirred and rolled over, sat up for a peck and a hug and I left, exhausted.  I’m not sure I like fulfilling fantasies.

You don’t know me.
February Photofest

It was like walking by a perfumed woman.

One minute it was there: real, wonderful, delicious in its lingering scent. Like a garden around the corner in full bloom.

And then, as if swept away on a breeze, it was long past me and the space between us convinced him he was wrong: it was nothing to pursue or look forward to with me.

He had decided he would cancel our date tonight and any further engagements.

The Magical Sub was not so magical after all.

And I was right.

I choked on tears in the car when I got the first warning text at 12:30 expressing his reservations. I was headed to the grocery store to buy supplies. I sat in the parking lot instead and replied, calmly and warmly. Four hours later he finally confirmed he’d had a change of heart.

No matter, really.

I’d driven straight home and crawled under my covers in my workout clothes and cried off and on into my pink velvet pillow shams for the rest of the afternoon.

The house was a mess and there was no food. I’d gone to no trouble. Fuck him. Fuck it.

I didn’t respond to his last text apologizing and saying he felt like an asshole. Well, yeah. You should. Not going to argue with you; I’m going to walk away with my head held high, tyvm.

Prior to this afternoon he’d excitedly asked me about my rope skills and sent drooling emojis about seeing me again. There were lots of warm smiles and exclamations from him.

I guess the bright cold winter air sobered him up.

I can’t quite understand why I even keep trying, to be honest. Such a waste of my everything.

FUCK OFF. xx

My last Sinful Sunday of the year. Click below for everyone else!

Sinful Sunday

I’m fucked up.

My own stupidity and resistance to growth astounds me sometimes.  I see the fork in the road, which side is the right thing to do, and yet I still choose the other.

Very basically it goes something like this: This guy really pisses me off.  I should have nothing to do with him.  But wow, he’s hot and I’m horny and it can’t be that bad, right??  Except it is always that bad.  ALWAYS.

Thursday night was no different and I’m going to share something with you that I find nothing less than utterly humiliating.  It’s embarrassing that as a 43-year-old woman I continue to engage in this behavior.  I know better and yet… here I am.

And then the other side is I can’t flagellate myself too much because that’s giving in to some darker need of mine that may be the ultimate aim of my subconscious to begin with.  I’m stuck in this odd purgatory of regret, remorse, and redemption.

Remember Sassypants?  The so-called sub I was chatting with was a disaster on our first date.  I even told Ann, my therapist, and various other friends leading up to our second date that I knew it was a bad idea, but that I was horny and – say it with me – how bad could it be??

Well, the answer is pretty fucking bad.

I’ll give you the Cliff Notes’s version: he doesn’t believe white privilege exists, argued with me about a tenant of my beliefs, said he was trying to “open my mind,” and that Asian and Indian men here in the States were the most privileged members of our society.  I told him to leave twice, but he remained, and only laughed me off.  I don’t think he knew I was serious and me being me I just drank the pain away and let him stay.

We ended up in a tangled, drunken mess on my couch and I angry-fucked him while roaring orgasms ripped through me.  I cried and moaned my rage in puddles all over my bed.

Much later he thought I wanted to fuck some more so he managed to stuff it inside of me, but began smacking my thighs with his dick to get hard.  I instantly felt small and invisible and remembered every lover who didn’t see me in that move.  My distaste of him afforded me no insight beyond my own.

“Am I even a part of this???  I asked.  “That doesn’t feel good,” I probably slurred.

He snapped.

He swore at me and ran out of the room.  Confused I grabbed a robe and stumbled out into my livingroom where he was angrily snatching up his clothes and his giant box of beer.  He flung open the front door as words were said, angry ones.  It slammed shut with a blast of cold air and then all was quiet.

I’d text him later to say how awful that whole experience was for me. Brief and to the point.  No name calling, just sharing my feelings.  Even later I’d block him on both Fet and the phone, but he’d find a work around and text me from another number to insult me, my age, my communication skills, and basically laugh the whole night off as a colossal joke.

What it boils down to is that I was enraged at myself for allowing this idiot on my couch and feeling ultimately powerless to remove him.  “What is the point of you saying these things to me?!” I asked.  “Are you trying to prove to yourself that you can trick a feminist into fucking some right-wing nut job?  Because none of what you’re saying is making me feel safe or close to you.”

He laughed and assured me I was just misunderstanding him, he was actually a great guy!  Ask his friends!

Blame the booze, blame my deep, dark hard wiring to not believe my own intuition, blame whatever, but I let him stay and it all completely imploded.  I lost myself utterly to my own upset and void of self.  It’s taken me the entire weekend to piece myself back together, tenderly and with much forgiveness.  I’m not wure all the parts are put back properly, to be honest.

The older I get the more tender to the world I become and the learning curve to remember this is steep.  So steep.  I’m never sure when to cut bait, though I am completely aware of the right time.

I’m still insisting on Dating Like It’s 1995 to ok results.  I’m talking to 3 men, all “subs” and I get lots of long emails which I’m loving.  One is one I might need to cut, the other is My Irishman and he is brilliant still and I have these incredible purple-hued pictures of his big, thick cock bound in a new boot lace just for me, and the third is a local 31 yo who’s way out of my league, but who is easy-going and eager and so, who knows?

There are no vanilla prospects and I am finding myself less and less interested in starting there.

Anyway, in case you thought you were ever supposed to have it all figured out by a certain age I’m here to prove to you that there’s no guarantee that will happen.  You may be just as giant an asshole as you were at 23.

I have no stability in my life and it shows.  I don’t do this kind of reckless, stupid shit when I have a steady force in my life.  Even when I had Peter this didn’t happen.  I need an anchor and I’ve yet to discover how to be my own.

I exhaust myself sometimes with my wild, silly decisions and wonder if I’ll ever outgrow them.  God, I sure hope I do, though…

Finding a D/s dance partner is one long and lonely night.

I have always known why I want to dominate.

It’s not because it’s taboo or transgressive, or even because I’m in charge.  It’s because in that bubble of time where a man bends his knee to me I can finally let go.

I want to dominate so I may trust.

A year ago I met Nate.  I never really named him other than tagging the name in the footnotes of my writings.  He felt like a shadow to me, sand through my fingers.  I didn’t want to name something I knew would be temporary.

He found me on CollarSpace.  Approached me like a normal man, but respectful.  Not simpering or demanding, an all too common combination in the male sub choice of communique.  Simpmanding.  Demanpering?

We met on an October night at a local wine bar and drank two bottles of wine.  His long legs capped with cowboy boots crossed at the ankles stretched out past our table.  We laughed and talked under the stars for hours until hunger drove us out to find a diner.

He walked me to my car and I let him snake his fingers inside my panties.  He was usually dominant he said.  He kissed me hard, almost painfully, and brought me to climax.  I came down my leg and my juices pooled in my shoes.

At the diner we talked some more and stuffed our faces.  His black leather jacket crinkled and he periodically had to flick his jaw-length blond hair out of his eyes.  “We’ll have to make sure you have a hair tie,” I said mischievously.

We said our goodbyes in the parking lot under a street lamp and tried to hide our lascivious petting from the occasional other diner coming and going.  He dropped to his knees and buried his face in the apex of my thighs.  At 3 am we were virtually alone.

He was an intense A-type workaholic with his own one-man business.  His passion and focus was entirely on his career, but he could no longer ignore this burning need to be dominated.  He wanted the freedom of no control.

He was never very good at just casual sex he said and wanted to make a real connection with someone, not just a one-time thing, which was perfect for me.  When we met I was still licking my wounds after a crushing D/s disappointment and I was refocused on going slowly.

We hung out ol’ vanilla style a few times, established expectations in communication and made out.  He tasted of weed and tobacco and I liked to eye his long hair with disdain.  “You don’t like my long hair, do you?” he’d ask smiling.

“Nope.  Not at all,” I laughed.

Over the next 4 months we played with our deeper drives.  The first night I took control I didn’t change out of my work attire, a black pencil skirt and cream colored silky button down with its own black tie tied loosely into a bow right where the last button held at my cleavage.  His eyes bugged when I opened the door.  The black sash would end up around his neck while his hands and feet were bound.

For weeks he’d come over and I would have a different sash, ribbon, or tie.  A length of pink satin wrapped gently, yet firmly around his ball sac and the base of his shaft, my sash tied through his smile, and the little black velvet ribbon I used to use on The Neighbor bowed about his beautiful, pale neck.

I used my “BDSM Starter Kit” on him and experimented with the flogger, the ball gag and the blindfold.  And while bound and blind I liked to slip a plug a boy had once left behind – a boy whose name I don’t even recall – light pink and slender, angled like a soft little diamond deep into his clenched hole while I milked his cock and he cried out begging to cum.

Nate was tall and lean and he loved to do domestic service for me.  I’d sip wine while I watched him put away the dishes wearing my black lace panties with cherries on them, his pink meat stuffed inside the lace basket.

My room lit with candles offered us the safe space to seek that which we wanted so badly.  His trust in me was an aphrodisiac, his complete submission a harrowing, yet utterly titillating experience.  Every touch, every sound, every kiss and lick I gave was for a purpose: submit to me.

I liked to ride his face until I came with him bucking beneath me for air.  He’d look drunk when I’d slide down his body to suck his cock and sound near-to-tears when I finally gave him permission to fill my mouth with his seed.

Afterwards we liked to sit on my balcony so he could smoke and we could come back to earth and our bodies.  It was during one of these post-coital, aftercare moments that I realized my true drive to dominate.  I wanted to trust him.  I wanted to trust him so badly. 

My relationship with Nate, while brief, was also the first time I said, “No, don’t treat me that way,” when he was vague or slippery about plans.  We talked on the phone semi-regularly to touch base and recalibrate.  He was eager, willing, and listened to me.  I felt heard.

The very last time we were together things felt a little off.  He was distracted and I was struggling to enter my dominant space.  I checked in with him, corrected things and we forged on.

I wore my harness replete with a slender black dildo the length of my middle finger and after cumming twice myself via his face and cock I unbuckled his ankles and put them on my shoulders.  His eyes, uncovered so he could watch, glistened in the candlelight.

I felt an incredible sense of power kneeling over him with my little mini hardon.  He was so open to me, waiting, trusting.  I dribbled lube all over his crack and hole, pushed inside and shuffled closer to the backs of his thighs, and began to thrust as I played with his chubby dick.

The movement to penetrate was harder than I’d imagined.  A foreign curling of my hips and a strength in my thighs I didn’t have.  The more I pumped and fondled the more he strained against me.  I was on the verge of being thrown completely off the bed by his pleasure.  I shook with the effort to  take in the power of his submission, I was about to be on the floor!

“Nate,” I said tapping the rock hard thigh against my chest.  “You have to stop pushing on me.  You’re about to fling me right off.”  We’d have laughed if we weren’t both drowning in power and submission.

He relaxed and I pushed into him further and continued to squeeze and jerk on his cock.  It all felt a bit like patting my head and rubbing my belly, but I was determined to see it all to the end.

He came mightily and I braced myself against his muscles.  He shook and cried and and the air vibrated around us.

I slowly pulled out and grabbed a towel to wipe his bottom.  He was embarrassed there may be a mess.  I told him not to worry and tucked the towel beneath him and unwrapped the harness from my hips.

We lay together, dazed, incredulous that any of it had happened.  As per our little routine we got up, put on robes and went outside.  I could barely move and felt like I had fallen flat on my face from a four story window.  My legs shook with the effort of walking and I would end up hobbling for days.

He puffed on his weed and I sipped on wine under the moon on my balcony.  He left sooner than I was ready, though it was probably an hour.  I’d needed more time to come back into myself.  He seemed eager to run out and I could almost see him waiting the appropriate amount of time until he could.

We’d talk about it – the pegging and the disconnect – and he agreed with everything and validated my feelings.  We would never attempt that level of D/s again unless he was fully submitting.  I felt good about the chat, so did he.  And I’m glad because it was the last one we’d have while engaged with one another in the dynamic.

He called not long after to give me the update that his career taking off and he’d have no time for us.  I wished him well and accepted my fate.  We texted off and on over the months and even had a nice chat.  He was dating a vanilla girl and No, she didn’t know about his predilections.

Since Nate I’ve met one young man, though we had no chemistry; talked with one on the phone who was basically so unintelligible I wondered how he got through life; and have emailed with a dozen more.  My requirements are specific and my need a lazy one so it’s not much of a combination to move the needle towards a match.

Dozens of men a month send me disgusting notes about being my personal toilet or sitting on their faces to the point they pass out.  Demanding that they be dominated because they want it, calling me Goddess and Mistress and all sorts of honorifics as if they’ve earned it.  It’s as exhausting and ridiculous as regular dating, just with a kinky and sometimes disgusting twist.  It’s not all a complete loss, though.

Recently I found a man who ticked all the boxes, though the ink on his divorce wasn’t yet dry and he couldn’t seem to find the time for me.  I told him my interest had waned, but to reach out if things changed on his end.

And – more excitingly – I’ve found an Irishman who is an astoundingly good match – aside from the distance, that is.

He’s everything I could hope for and our emails are long and interesting.  Perhaps I will meet him while I’m in the UK in March.  I’d been seriously considering popping over to Dublin even before he and I began chatting, so maybe this is a good opportunity for me.  Or just another chance to meet someone I can’t have long term.  I seem to be really good at that.

This dance of D/s is so prolonged, so intricate.  There are steps to follow, dips to learn, twirls to master.  My pickiness is born out of slap-in-the-face after slap-in-the-face as I’ve learned the moves of the kinky world.  Some men can’t handle submitting and lash out by disappearing.  I have to be cautious and hold the bar high above my head – oh so high.  It is delicate and fragile, this power exchange, yet empowering and exciting. I can’t fuck around.

I am so clear on what I want and what is acceptable and I never wonder if I’ve made the right choice, but I do miss dancing with someone… and barely being able to walk for days.

Men are so precious: How to weed out the idiots with your online profile

Let me set the stage.

I have a lengthy and well thought out profile on FetLife that outlines my requirements for a sub (fit, hung, significantly bigger than me to name a few) with an additional requirement nestled in it to vet the lazy, self-absorbed, and/or impatient.  It’s a line towards the bottom where I ask them to tell me what their favorite vacation destination is.  I have this kind of question in all my profiles, actually.

Remember that story about Led Zepplin or some ridiculously huge and famous band whose tour rider was 45 pages long and towards the back, but not at the very end because it’d be easy to spot, was buried a request to have their M&Ms sorted into different groups by color? [Update: it was Van Halen and “no brown M&Ms.”]

Yeah, well, if they showed up to a venue and there weren’t sorted M&Ms they’d walk out the concert promoters wouldn’t get paid.  It was a quick and easy way to know their rider hadn’t been read and they weren’t interested in rewarding folks that half-assed it.  Likewise, I’m not interested in dealing with a sub (or regular man, for that matter) that half-asses it with me, either.

The other thing you need to know is that I bother Ferns with my sub-tales all the time and as soon as I read the last message I copied it and sent it off to her with my thoughts.  Like, instantly. Thank god she loves me.

::

[My thoughts are in bold italics.]

Amongtheclueless
27M Sensualist
5w
Candidly speaking, I love your profile and would like to get to know you. If that feeling is mutual I would be quite happy. I have a lot to offer in the some of positive sexual energy and friendship. Im a pretty creative, intelligent, and naughty type. Hope to hear from you.
Happy to share more pics too, I actually reduced my images on here to be a bit more privacy oriented after it came to my attention that others were cat-fishing me.
[Lame ass form letter, but he’s hot and hung, so…]

Hy Jones
43F Domme
3w
Have you read my profile?

Amongtheclueless
3w
Yep
[Clearly he has not]

Hy Jones
3w
Prove it ;)
[I immediately regretted the winky face]

Amongtheclueless
3w
How so?
[Are you fucking kidding me??? BUT HOT SO…]

Hy Jones
3w
Read my profile and you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Amongtheclueless
3w
favorite vacation part? I love Paris. Riviera. France.
[What a fucking idiot.  I let it sit and 3 weeks later I get:]

Amongtheclueless
6h
Not interested ?

Hy Jones
1h
It’s not flowing, kid. This entire thread has been me pulling teeth. I haven’t enjoyed or been impressed by your correspondence. So, yeah. At this point I am not interested.

Amongtheclueless
45m
Kid? Get off your high horse. You’re not above anyone.

You can’t respond to this conversation because Amongtheclueless has deactivated their account, you’ve blocked them, or they’ve blocked you.
[BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA]

[Immediately copy and paste and send to Ferns]

::

It’s painful to read this for so many reasons, but this is what dating is like: someone routinely totally and completely misses everything that’s laid out in front of them, gets pissy, huffs off and learns absolutely nothing and goes and does it to someone else.  Me me me me me me!  TL;DR: it’s sum’ bullshit.

The additional preciousness of this correspondence is that he says to a Domme he’s hoping to hook up with, “you’re not above anyone.”  Oh man hahahahaha I can’t even!

Needless to say, I recommend to one and all to bury a little request of the reader/potential lover into your profiles.  It makes culling the herd that much easier and you might get a good fucking laugh out of it, too.

Erotic.

Stuck.

Your cock choked and purple at attention in my warm hand, beautifully bound with a wide, golden ribbon, wrapped with a bow.  Your gift to me.

How I yearn for its obedience and your loss of control which I catch on the wind as you set it free.  I collect it like so many wild flowers on a morning walk, my pile of power a sumptuous, heady fragrance.

I look back over my shoulder at you, wriggle down on your hips, clasp your throbbing meat in my hands and slowly milk you.  Long, friendly strokes, light slaps, a tug on your bulbous scrotum.

Your cries caress my ears, your semen spurts dutifully into my hands, my smile curves upon my lips. The leather around your wrists groans with the strain of your body arching into its ecstasy. Just like I wanted you to.

Mm.

I hope to continue my travels along the lanky lines of your body, the pale valleys and cut ridges, the tender spots of your emotional domain.

I’ll miss you while you’re gone.

Sinful Sunday
February Photofest