Monday, February 25, 2008

We'll Have a Dalmatian Plantation

I had one of those weekends that made me rethink my entire identity. Unsurprisingly, my identity-rethinking weekends are also always my sleep-deprivation weekends, so there will be no actual changes to my identity or behavior, except that I might take some Benadryl tonight to make sure I sleep.

In the interest of sparing my readers, I have decided to hold off on posting the tales of Friday night's massage/berber session until such time as I am coherent. Please do not hold your breath. When I'm well rested and the planets are properly aligned, prose flows from my fingers in a relatively free fashion. When I'm not, it's all drivel, all the time. I leave it to my betters to make writing about sex tedious. When I see crap showing up in the Blogger window, I know it's time to cut my losses. I'll go back to the draft in a day or two, delete 90% of what's there, and finish the tale for you.

Change of topic. Expect no transition.

YFU's twelfth birthday was yesterday. The birthday tradition for the kids (or for YFU, I guess, now that EFU is away at college.) is a family dinner with both parents and our respective SOs. B&c and I mostly dread this, but we do it for YFU. Because, you know, what's more exciting for a twelve-year-old girl than sitting at a table with four grown-up liberals?

Anyway, the real birthday celebration is next Saturday, when YFU and up to eleven of her closest friends will be descending on the chez moi for a party and a sleepover. This event was carefully timed to coincide with b&c's trip to Germany (he leaves Tuesday, having just returned Saturday from Haiti, where he was, apparently, not kidnapped), so it will be just me and a house full of eleven- and twelve-year-old girls.

There are probably worse ways to die, but I can't think of any offhand. Thank God I have the house cleaning and party decorating and cake baking to keep me busy this week, because otherwise, the sixty-five hours at work would leave me pretty bored.

Change of topic. Expect no transition.

I'll get into this at greater length, maybe, when I post about the events of Friday night, but I have, I think, fully evolved in my feelings about submissives. In the past, I got upset when I tied a guy down and he had a great time and then never wanted a repeat. Then I learned to accept, with some regret, that such was the way of things. Later still, I learned to be grateful for the one good session and not worry about whether there would be others. Finally, I have come to realize that a) the first session is always the best, b) these are generally people that I wouldn't enjoy hanging out with, and c) pretty much anyone who's lived to the age of thirty or beyond can be fascinating for a single evening. The upshot: it's best for all concerned, especially me, when these things happen only once.

Now that I'm free of even the expectation/responsibility of a receiving/sending a follow-up email, I can keep looking for new subs to play with. I very much like reporting what really happens with them here on the blog, but I'm thinking that some day I should use my notes here as a basis for a series of fictionalized accounts. I was thinking that One Thousand and One Submissives would be a good title, but I'll probably settle for 101 and either call it abridged or start referring to my subs by names more appropriate for Dalmatians. God knows I have the dog collars.

I reckon that all means my pseudonym will be either شهرزاد (hi, Eric!) or Cruella de Vil, depending.

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