Goalz.

I was thinking about my long term plans today and I realized that the majority of my goals fall into the category of Arbitrary but Awesome. Here are my top ten from that category: 

1. Strip to Tom Waits’ Little Drop of Poison in red pointe shoes

2. Couples Halloween costume, but with my dog. So wrong. (Since she’s a girl we’d totally look like homos.) We could be Tegan and Sara! 

(I'll be the one reading, my pup will be the one making eyes at you.)

3. Learn morse code so I can embroider smut into the rain in my crafty projects.

4. Knit my dog an ugly Christmas sweater and make her wear it every day of December 2012 and possibly into January. (I’ll wash it.)

5. Salvage an old, broken upright piano and plant things in it. Not cute, British garden plants like peonies or pansies but epic big ass plants like ferns and birds of paradise and crazy climbing vines with giant purple blossoms. It should look like I salvaged the piano from a RAINFOREST.

6. Deconstruct, line and reconstruct these: 

I'll make them into uber manly oven mitts to serve as a not so subtle hint to future lovers that I like a boi who can cook. 

sidenote: If the presence of such mitts (hung prominently over my oven) isn’t enough, here’s step two: Dress like a lovely little June Cleaver but struggle to put on my giant manly mitts, letting them fall off several times and refusing help before finally managing (with apparent difficulty) to keep them on just long enough to retrieve a flavorless charred casserole-like-thing from the oven. (ideally at this point the kitchen smells nothing like food and very much like fire). Then, upon seeing my creation and realizing I’ve failed at my wifely duties, collapse at the kitchen table, across from Lover, dropping my now mascara-tear stained face into my giant leather mittened hands, defeated. (Ideally each glove would be larger than my face) What kind of bastard wouldn’t take up the manly mitts and cook for such a sorry soul? 


...or I could just use my words.

7. Master the lost art of unbuttoning buttons with my toes, then time myself!  hot.

8. Learn to play cello just well enough so that I can sing Lady GaGa songs and accompany myself. I will wear a classic little black dress and pearls but do my hair in a giant crazy updo with a glittery white finger monkey peaking out one side at a jaunty angle, winning the audience over with its big, blinky eyes and teeny dexterous fingers. 

(because feather extensions are so 2011) Of course I'm anti animal cruelty so the glitter would have to be the finger monkeys choice. I would leave an Altoid tin sandbox full of food grade glitter on my vanity and let them decide whether they would like to role around in it. (I hope to find a femme self-identified teenage finger monkey who would be TOTALLY into it and would feel very pretty in their shimmery fur coat.)

9. Sunbathe naked on the rock in front of Bridal Veil Falls. Well, not naked naked, I’d wear my Fancy Lady Sunglasses so nobody would question my behavior. It would be clear that it was indeed MY naked public sunbathing rock. 

10. Win a MacArthur

Resolution Update #2

Day 7: no sugar and no orgasms

I rarely have sex dreams.  I’ve had maybe five in my life and they were so magical I wanted to stay asleep forever like a naughty Rip Van Ladyface.

But last night I had my first sex nightmare*.  I dreamt I was lying on a bale of hay in the middle of a field and the old dude from Back to the Future was going down on me.

 

Yes Doc Brown, I was as surprised as you are!  It was not good (sorry).  And I wasn’t quite sure how I ended up there or how to gracefully excuse myself from the situation, so I went with:

“Ummm…I think I forgot my purse.” And then wandered off disoriented, pants-less  and vaguely concerned about a purse that may have been fictional.

So, it’s official, this New Years resolution is messing with me. 

*I’m sure Mister Lloyd is a very nice guy and his hair certainly looks touchably soft, but he’s not really my ‘type’.

A word of advice...

Don't wash your dog with all-natural-essential-oil-based-vegan-hippie shampoo before pole dancing.  That stuff doesn't come off.  And slippery in this context is not sexy.  Thank goodness I only injured my pride.

Babyface

Update: the new years resolution is going strong!  Four days of no sugar and no orgasms.  But it’s no fun to talk about the delicious sex and chocolate cake I'm not having, so todays post will be about something else entirely.

Here are a few excerpts from a journal entry I wrote the night of my very first foot fetish party 5 years ago when I was a baby ladyface.  Enjoy! 

Alejandro:

Alejandro is a nondescript middle-aged Asian man.  He’s also evidence that it isn’t just the women who use pseudonyms when they play.  The session with “Alejandro” started out pretty simple with the two of us sitting on the couch with my feet in his face as he licked/sucked and kissed all over them.

Sometimes he’d close his eyes and leave his mouth squished up and his tongue slightly out and have me move my toes flirtatiously over that little oral anemone.  It looked ridiculous and tickled like crazy but I got the impression that “Alejandro” is the kinda guy who wouldn’t appreciate humor in a session. 

I moaned instead.

Arthur:

Arthur is a 60 year old, clean-cut East Coast academic. He was the first of the guys to really worship.  He touched, kissed and licked my feet as if they were fragile. By the end of our two consecutive sessions I was running my hand through his hair while he sucked on my toes and stared longingly at me.  Whenever my toes weren’t in his mouth he was murmuring compliments.  I laid back and enjoyed his vocabulary.  Apparently I am a “resplendent seraphim” with “tantalizing” toes and “luminous” eyes.  I should have been paying him for the GRE prep. 

Dillon:

My last session of the evening was with a 26 year old grad student from Prague named Dillon.  He was well-dressed and kinda cute for a boy.  Since he was more into tickling than oral play we got to talk throughout the session. And…I broke one of my boundaries with Dillon.  (already!  Oh geez.) 

He asked if I ever do footplay with boyfriends.  I said no and he was shocked.  He kept inquiring and after a moment of consideration I told him simply “I don’t date boys.” He got all excited, stuttered, recovered and said in his cute Prague-y accent: “Oh!  So you understand!  I like feet and you like girls.”  Luckily he was tickling me or I might have had to explain my laughter at his equating my queerness with his distinctive fetish.  The correct analogy would have been "I like feet like you like fisting" but I didn't go there.  I don’t regret outing myself to Dillon but I expect that it will become harder to negotiate to what extent my work persona resembles actual me and where her truth ends.

In conclusion, the only nervousness I experienced in the course of the evening was my concern that the teeth of a toe-nibbling client might chip my toenail polish, but as far as occupational hazards go that one is rather benign.  And I came home feeling sexy, powerful, at home in my body and untouchable.  (I recognize the irony of that last bit)  I’m glad I made the decision to do this for myself.  Go me.  

Resolution Update #1

This year my New Year's resolution is to give up sugar and orgasms for as long as I can.  (link to explanation) But, as it turns out, yesterday was my birthday.  

I ate cake and took care of business.

In my defense, I decided to indulge ahead of time when I realized I didn’t have a reasonable excuse to not partake of my own birthday cake at my workplace birthday celebration. 

I considered faking diabetes but that has no cure and I’m not great at commitment.  I was also unable to find a suitable disease on WebMd.  Of all the weird shit out there you’d think there’d be something that causes temporary sugar intolerance.  If there is I couldn’t find it, and I looked for at least ten minutes.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to not eat cake on your birthday (diabetes being the only reasonable defense).

As for orgasms, you can’t NOT have an orgasm on your special day.  If breaking a mirror gives you 7 years bad luck then not o-ing on your birthday has to garner at least a decades worth of bad juju.  And even if you didn’t get sexy on your birthday, the b-day orgasm would happen anyway.  That’s God’s way of letting us know he loves us.  He just reaches down with that giant finger and…

nevermind.

In conclusion, I’m gonna queer this New Year and reclaim January 4^th as my New Years Day so that today is no longer just the day that Thomas Edison electrocuted Topsy the elephant (really) but can now be celebrated as a new beginning by the pachyderm lover in all of us!

Happy New New Year!

Tweets!

I set up a twitter account: @1ladyface  The content is much like the blog content, but shorter. (obviously)   

Enjoy!

Have a Somewhat Happy New Year!

I’ve had a week off and I’ve been thinking.  (this is dangerous)  I haven’t made a New Year’s resolution in a few years so this year I’m going to give up sugar and orgasms for as long as I can.

The Explanation:

I have a Mormon Friend who is getting married on the 20^th, so I’d better be able to make it at least that long.  It’ll be like shaving my head in solidarity with a Cancer Friend but with a lot more suffering and loss of personal identity.

And the giving up sugar part is because sugar is my kryptonite, second only to masculine female born perverts in its ability to turn my brain to mush and my pupils to cartoon hearts.  And I ate way too much sugar over the holidays so I really should get back to taking care of my body.

But, my motives aren’t purely altruistic.  I’ve committed to posting at least every Sunday in 2012 and I’m terrified of running out of material.  So, if nothing’s coming (pardon the pun) at least for the time being I can post about this experiment so that you can all lay back, post-coital in your lovers sexy, sweaty arms and laugh at my suffering as you shovel organic, fair trade, vegan bonbons (lovingly crafted and bike-delivered by local confectionery artisans) into your slutty, slutty mouths.  


So jealous.

I anticipate that, for the time being, this blog space will be used primarily to document my mental deterioration.  Or maybe, after days (or even weeks) of not indulging I’ll reach a point of pure transcendence and from within that glistening bubble of bliss I’ll have the awareness and perspective to finally answer with confidence the age-old question:

How much yoga does it take to replace pleasure?