Snippets of Slyness
Still bewildered and bedraggled from much beer and bonking, so will just post random odds and ends of last night as both the memories and the motor skills to articulate them return...
New Boots and Panties
Was all frocked up in my Beyond outift of leather top and camos and boots and bondage belt and black hanky, with the obligatary red lipstick and new girly knickers. (Had planned a bit more frou in fishnets and a mere slip of a dress, but to be bitch on the back of Daddy Nic's big, black and beautiful required something with a little more coverage and ease of movement).
Not to be outdone by the Melbourne bootboy, Mister Hunter brought his kit along last night and gave me the most immaculate and erotic boot job I have ever had. Took it nice and slow, licking and spitting and polishing and licking some more. Think there were a few of the crowd a little confused by the show, but certainly a few folk got what was going on and gave me knowing glances when I staggered disorientated to my feet, floating and unsteady with my eyes glazed over. Some time later when I was talking to his Darkling he came over and pulled the cloth from his pocket, stinking of leather and polish, and held it hard against my nose and mouth so all I could smell and taste was boot. It was like being hit with a hanky soaked in chloroform, and I (almost?) swooned when I breathed it in and fell against D's lap. Bliss! Must learn to do boots myself I think- I do like to be on my knees after all, and there is such a sensual pleasure in manipulating and massaging leather and flesh until both are melded and supple and reborn. And there is an element of service that makes me very wet to think of having someone look down at me while I work on them. Blowjobs and bootjobs.... mmmm....
What's Inside a Girl
Spent a rather messy few early morning hours rediscovering how much I like threesomes, with the aid of the delectable, articulate and downright filthy Mistress O'Mayhem and the WhoreNextDoor. Cunts and fur and breasts and mouths and squishy things and vibrating things and squelchy things and fisty things all tangled up and... 'we must stop this- its not decent!'. Fucked senseless by MOM and then more red-hanky fun with the WND, although this time the glove was on the other fist. Had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed it in there...
Titties and Beer
MOM pointed out this morning that my tits had different personality traits. The right one is much more of a public figure, eager to be flashed about and a bit of a floozy. Whereas the left one is much more private and vulnerable and harder to get attached to. I think she has a point,as they are certainly very different to pump. I wonder if the brew reflects this difference anyhow, softer or smoother or crisper or sharper, and imagine Pale Ale flowing from one breast and Stout from the other. Anyone for a blind milk tasting?
'I can lose myself in Chinese art and American girls' (to quote The Cure yet again), but no matter how many others are on my dance card my hearts and parts still ache for The Lost Boy. So many adventures that will never be had, so many games of pool and road trips and tender cuddles and cheeky smiles and delicious bodily entanglements that it seems will not be part of my future. Never did learn to kick that footy after all. Sad, very very sad, about it ending. Yes, perhaps I should learn to be more guarded, not to fall so hard, but maybe those moments of sheer bliss and delight when you allow yourself to totally give in and get swept up in believing in the possibility of something so special are just about worth it. On days like this though it is hard to see the promise, even if you know it is there somewhere.
Private Dancer
A long time ago I had an argument with a security person at a US airport when she assured me that if she had to touch my 'private areas' she would use the back of her hand. I insisted that I didn't have any 'private areas', she repeated her spiel, I repeated my reply and nobody smiled. In general I'm pretty public with my private parts, don't mind who sees me pissing or walks in when I am under the shower. I often dance topless or get my kit off in performances. I've been catheterised on stage, my flesh has been cut and pierced while others watched. Mostly I find it liberating, and a beautiful way to connect with others, to share myself:
And I laid upon the table
Another piece of meat
And I opened up my veins to them
And said come on eat
- Patti Smith 'Summer Cannibals'
But sometimes I just feel drained by all these interactions though, totally bled dry (though I do recognise that I recieve much from others too). Have a huge weekend coming up, full of people and parties and photographs, and don't know if I have enough energy to keep on giving. Think I need to withdraw a little, spend more time on my own, rebuild and renew. Stew in my own juices, so to speak. When I told my lactation consultant that I was grieving a lost love she told me that I must drink my own breastmilk to heal myself. Something about the relationship between aching breast and healing breast that intrigues me...
Love Comes In Spurts
On a totally unrelated note: A flapping mincing screeching gayboy at the hostel last week bailed me up to ask if I 'drank from the furry cup'.Upon hearing that I did, but had a rather bio-boy focussed past, he asked if I missed cock. And I told him no, I still had plenty of cock, and all I missed was jizz (especially now). Thinking of getting a tattoo saying CUM RAG across my arse. Just can't work out a font.
New Boots and Panties
Was all frocked up in my Beyond outift of leather top and camos and boots and bondage belt and black hanky, with the obligatary red lipstick and new girly knickers. (Had planned a bit more frou in fishnets and a mere slip of a dress, but to be bitch on the back of Daddy Nic's big, black and beautiful required something with a little more coverage and ease of movement).
Not to be outdone by the Melbourne bootboy, Mister Hunter brought his kit along last night and gave me the most immaculate and erotic boot job I have ever had. Took it nice and slow, licking and spitting and polishing and licking some more. Think there were a few of the crowd a little confused by the show, but certainly a few folk got what was going on and gave me knowing glances when I staggered disorientated to my feet, floating and unsteady with my eyes glazed over. Some time later when I was talking to his Darkling he came over and pulled the cloth from his pocket, stinking of leather and polish, and held it hard against my nose and mouth so all I could smell and taste was boot. It was like being hit with a hanky soaked in chloroform, and I (almost?) swooned when I breathed it in and fell against D's lap. Bliss! Must learn to do boots myself I think- I do like to be on my knees after all, and there is such a sensual pleasure in manipulating and massaging leather and flesh until both are melded and supple and reborn. And there is an element of service that makes me very wet to think of having someone look down at me while I work on them. Blowjobs and bootjobs.... mmmm....
What's Inside a Girl
Spent a rather messy few early morning hours rediscovering how much I like threesomes, with the aid of the delectable, articulate and downright filthy Mistress O'Mayhem and the WhoreNextDoor. Cunts and fur and breasts and mouths and squishy things and vibrating things and squelchy things and fisty things all tangled up and... 'we must stop this- its not decent!'. Fucked senseless by MOM and then more red-hanky fun with the WND, although this time the glove was on the other fist. Had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed it in there...
Titties and Beer
MOM pointed out this morning that my tits had different personality traits. The right one is much more of a public figure, eager to be flashed about and a bit of a floozy. Whereas the left one is much more private and vulnerable and harder to get attached to. I think she has a point,as they are certainly very different to pump. I wonder if the brew reflects this difference anyhow, softer or smoother or crisper or sharper, and imagine Pale Ale flowing from one breast and Stout from the other. Anyone for a blind milk tasting?
'I can lose myself in Chinese art and American girls' (to quote The Cure yet again), but no matter how many others are on my dance card my hearts and parts still ache for The Lost Boy. So many adventures that will never be had, so many games of pool and road trips and tender cuddles and cheeky smiles and delicious bodily entanglements that it seems will not be part of my future. Never did learn to kick that footy after all. Sad, very very sad, about it ending. Yes, perhaps I should learn to be more guarded, not to fall so hard, but maybe those moments of sheer bliss and delight when you allow yourself to totally give in and get swept up in believing in the possibility of something so special are just about worth it. On days like this though it is hard to see the promise, even if you know it is there somewhere.
Private Dancer
A long time ago I had an argument with a security person at a US airport when she assured me that if she had to touch my 'private areas' she would use the back of her hand. I insisted that I didn't have any 'private areas', she repeated her spiel, I repeated my reply and nobody smiled. In general I'm pretty public with my private parts, don't mind who sees me pissing or walks in when I am under the shower. I often dance topless or get my kit off in performances. I've been catheterised on stage, my flesh has been cut and pierced while others watched. Mostly I find it liberating, and a beautiful way to connect with others, to share myself:
And I laid upon the table
Another piece of meat
And I opened up my veins to them
And said come on eat
- Patti Smith 'Summer Cannibals'
But sometimes I just feel drained by all these interactions though, totally bled dry (though I do recognise that I recieve much from others too). Have a huge weekend coming up, full of people and parties and photographs, and don't know if I have enough energy to keep on giving. Think I need to withdraw a little, spend more time on my own, rebuild and renew. Stew in my own juices, so to speak. When I told my lactation consultant that I was grieving a lost love she told me that I must drink my own breastmilk to heal myself. Something about the relationship between aching breast and healing breast that intrigues me...
Love Comes In Spurts
On a totally unrelated note: A flapping mincing screeching gayboy at the hostel last week bailed me up to ask if I 'drank from the furry cup'.Upon hearing that I did, but had a rather bio-boy focussed past, he asked if I missed cock. And I told him no, I still had plenty of cock, and all I missed was jizz (especially now). Thinking of getting a tattoo saying CUM RAG across my arse. Just can't work out a font.
posted by Zoo at 1:23 pm
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