Resolution Update #3 (and stuff)

          So, I didn't post on Wednesday like I usually do.  I'm sorry (ish).  I was too busy having a mental breakdown.  I'll post about that later, once it becomes funny.  But to make up for my absence, here's a long-ish post:  

Big day in femme land: I found the perfect little black dress!  Thanks White House Black Market!

Then, still high on the dress victory, I visited Sephora.  I always enter that store hesitant at first and then end up dazzled and disoriented by the very friendly black-smocked Martians with their acrylic talons and glittery eye shadow.  How do they fit so many shades in the space between their lash line and eyebrows?  Sunsets don’t have that many colors. 

But what’s even more impressive than the Martians themselves is their collective power: if you walk into a Sephora not wearing makeup (or just not wearing enough makeup by Martian standards) within just a few minutes you feel like an ugly invader duckling.  That little tiny zit that popped up next to your ear lobe yesterday suddenly triples in size, your split ends reach out, away from your zitty head like angry medusa snakes and your once full lips become sad little gray worms.

Hopefully this intro will explain, at least in part, the events that followed...

I bought something.  It’s really hard to leave that store empty handed.  But this particular something is pretty special.  It’s definitely of questionable taste and may pose a health risk.  Hello lip plumper!  This product was clearly made for masochisty femmes like myself.  I tried it in the store and initially didn’t feel anything.  I started to get impatient and began to wander around.  Then I felt a tingle at my lip line, which quickly became an all-over burn.  I looked in the mirror.  Success!  My lips were fuller and definitely pinker. 

Downside: the discomfort kinda turned me on.  But I’m on day 19 of my New Years Resolution so most things turn me on.  My, that’s a handsome 5 o-clock shadow/backho/ice cream cone you have there.    So, no more lip plumper for me until I break my resolution and re-enter the world of sex.  Haha, enter.

Things that turn me on after 19 days of no O’s (this is not an exhaustive list):

1.     Stretching.  It’s a kind of discomfort and a kind of release but it’s just so terribly not quite satisfying.

2.     Chocolate cake.  (or any cake, or cupcake)  When I see cake in any form it reminds me that I’m not allowed to have it and that in turn reminds me what else I’m not allowed to have.  Then I cry.

3.     Cartoon super heros.  You know, the ones with inverted triangle torsos and grotesquely large jaws.  I’m not into cisdudes (even the cartoon kind) but they look so...mmm… virile!  I bet their little cartoon spermys have identical jaws. 

4.     Pine.  The smell of the forest my pup and I hike in every weekend now reminds me of manly mountain (trans)men.  I’m hoping there’s one in a rainbow loincloth hiding in a treehouse just waiting to scoop me up Tarzan style and save me from my self-imposed suffering.  This would of course involve a bear skin rug and an obscenely large strap-on hidden magically beneath the teeny loincloth (the queer equivalent of Mary Poppins’ carpet bag). 

5.     Pants.  No really.  It’s really hard to wear tight jeans when you haven’t o-ed in  NINETEEN DAYS.  When you sit down there’s that delicious little pressure…right…there.

6.     Vocabulary that wouldn’t normally be dirty like red velvet, oscillate and man hole cover.  Not sure what that last one means… 

7.     Curvy things.  This was the biggest surprise of all since I’m normally into ridiculously masculine beings.  Maybe I’m just into anything that looks butt-plug-ish.  That includes an unidentified root vegetable I saw at a roadside produce stand, a soft boiled egg sitting in an eggcup and, of course, lightbulbs.*   

8.     PAIN.  I knew I was a masochist but geez.  I guess I’m more hard up than I realized.  I stubbed my toe the other day and had a transcendent experience. 

9.     Muscles.  On anyone, anywhere, doing anything.  My brain now sees muscle movement in slow motion like a super sexy deodorant commercial.

10.     Handkerchiefs.  Any and all.  I immediately think of the hanky code.  As in: ooo, that hippie lady working at the produce stand on the side of the road has a malachite handkerchief in her left pocket! What does it mean?  Daddy?  Uniform top?  Into opera singers or jello wrestling or competitive chess?  Wait!  She’s pulling it out!  What’s she going to do with it? 

Oh, right. 

She’s using it to wipe off her pocket knife after chopping up samples of agave sweetened carob balls.   

       Damn.

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’.

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!