It's Just a Little Crush

It's just some little thing.

There's no power behind it, so I leave it alone, sitting somewhere in my head, ready to look at whenever I'm in a dreamy mood.

A crush is like an unfertilized egg. It's beautiful and self-contained, symmetrical and not, forever and not. An egg never turns into anything until you crack the shell, and even then it can become something tasty. Like brunch.

Or it ends up on  floor, broken, a big gooey mess.

To make the egg safe to eat, it needs to change, however subtly. You must add heat, or mix it with milk and brandy. An egg by itself is just...itself.

Like a crush.



Bottoms Up, Secret Lovers.

Disinformation

Intellectualizing relationships makes for awesome dinner party schtick. Two reactions stand out:

I know! That's so true!

or

Silence.

The latter indicates that someone's feeling flushed-out or guilty.

Whichever.

We make mental lists of ideal qualities. She/he should be like this, look like that, think like the other. I'll know her when I meet her, she'll stand out like New York in Las Vegas.

In real life we meet prospects who kinda sorta fit our perfect template, and depending upon our level of desperation, we'll ignore whatever doesn't.

* shrug *

This is real life, baby, it ain't no fantasy. Eighty percent compatibility feels like it's the most we can hope for. That prolly goes for life in general.

However. There's always the however. Because the urge to be with someone (read: continue the species) overpowers everything, we are supremely adept at ignoring warning signs in prospects. He's a drug-using philanderer with a history of unemployment and using prostitutes. But he's my John now.

Settle. Go for it. Go on. But don't then expect your day in court when it doesn't work out.





Bottoms Up Deniers.

The Girlfriend Experience

I want to write something along the lines of:

The Girlfriend Experience is about the closeness of two people meshing at inter-dimensional levels for spiritual reasons.

But that doesn't ring true - the contradictory evidence in my life alone is overwhelming.

Maybe that's because the whole relationship-dating complex tends toward hard-bitten-ness as people age. We begin to appear as - or begin to look for - financial saviours or mental leaning-posts rather than specially connected individuals.

My golden age was from fifteen until twenty-one. Innocent of wordly motives, a girlfriend was just that - about having a girl as a friend. Girls are soft and smell great and feel different and look at shit differently. That's nice. I want one of them close to me, on my side.

Innocence. That's the key word, implying a voyage of discovery with someone. From innocence to knowledge. And then to BDSM, but only after a decent interval.



Girlfriend Experience illustration from here [link]

What can you do for me?

Hi honey.

I'm cute.

Look at me. My skin is soft. If I decide, you can touch it.

What can you do for me?

* giggle *



Bottoms Up, Lucksters!

Friday Fluffer - Guess Her Muff

This is what blokes do all the time. Not dream of lesbians, but use our imaginations.

When we see a woman, we try to guess her muff.

NOTE NOTE NOTE NOTE NOTE

This Site has disappeared.

Guess Her Muff. <-----Link

But here's another celebrating women.

Link.

Warning: Nudity and NSFW.

Further Friday Fluffers here [link]



Bottoms Up, Muffins!

Feminist Literature

Floating around the internet searching for dungeon equipment proved immensely time wasting. Not only are there VERY few vendors, the quality of the goods looks decidedly dodgy. And surprisingly there's not much of a market for second-hand (pre-spanked?) BDSM kit...although maybe not so surprisingly.

Hey, I'll give you fifty for the rack, the standing cage and the two wooden stingers.

What I did find was an enormous amount of porn, which, as we all know, was the reason hand lotion was invented.

One kink I don't understand is this thing of writing shit on a woman. I'm looking at an example now. She's wearing spike heels and a sweet spiked collar. Her master (presumably) used a felt pen to write what amount to instructions all over her. Big arrows point at her cooter saying "For Fucking". On her buttocks, similar arrows lead to her chocolate starfish with the words "Cocks Go Here." On her boobs is the instruction "Cum All Over These" and at various places she's branded a "Slut".

Ooookay.




Exploring Uma photo from here [link]

Blog Crush

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Check her out.

Do women understand the actions over which men have no control? I am thinking here in particular of one thing, although you might have experienced others.

No?

Here's the one I have in mind:

Walking down the street, if an attractive woman passes me going in the opposite direction, I must turn and look at her after we cross. It is physically and mentally Im-Possible for me to not do so. An irresistible force compels my muscles to slow, turn, and check her out from behind as she sails on down the sidewalk.

Pervy, perhaps. But it doesn't feel like that. I sense that the instinct resides deep in my autonomic programming, living happily beside the modules for breathing, heartbeat and blogging. No wonder I prefer cities to the country, and walking to cars.

How can I put this more clearly? I know. Passing a woman on a city street is like a gift, a beautifully packaged shortbread cookie that won't make you fat. It's a treat, a bouquet, a surprise, a puff of perfume with no downside.

A simple daily wonder.




Picture from here. [link]

Later edit: Photo REALLY from here. [link]

Will I be single forever?

Imagination is the single person's closest friend. I don't know about you, but wandering through my brain's fantasy hallways keeps me occupied through traffic jams, business meetings, bathroom cleaning, beach walks and appalling lines at the post office.

I don't picture doing any of those specific activities with anyone else, thrilling as I'm sure the right lady would find the daily cat box emptying. It's more the contemplation of whether that woman in the 'Ethnic Foods' aisle at the supermarket would make any difference to my life. Or how come the teller chick at the bank (who looks to be approx. 19) already has a family and an address that's not a Postal Mart box? And am I a different species of male simply unable to communicate with the sex with the interesting body parts?

Imagining is fun - the Powerball this week is $153 million - but acts in the same way as the proverbial grain of sand in the oyster. No, not the one that you bite down on and break your crown - the one than gains layer after layer of something or other, and forms a pearl. Hour after hour of imagining creates a hard shell insulating me from the real world. I'm sure that's the answer. I'm living in a la-la land in my mind, neglecting to ask that woman in the ethnic aisle whether she knows where the hot sambals live.

That's the answer. Spit out the oyster's pearl of imagination and slurp down the salty meat. That's real life. I think.

Being Single Part 1, Being Single Part 2, Being Single Part 4.