Scene With Silver Go Whoopsie

Sunday, we played casual over webcam, myself in a clingy leather look mini dress but also wrapped in a loose black cardigan, and him no collar or other symbols except the hidden presence of a moderately sized butt plug.

I did not plan, let my mood decide where things went. As I am prone to I let a riff about my future desire to lay out belated birthday spankings with a hard backed hair brush pull us into that intimate state of focus on eachother, and the theme of the day became discipline.

Discipline is not a common activity for us. I don’t like the sensation of not receiving compliance and correcting it, most of the time, and have a hard time eroticizing not getting what I asked for. But it serves a purpose, and I ventured there: had he been bad?

He, squirming and enjoying the penitent vulnerability, confessed to missing three days of daily edging. Technically within compliance- as with most of my orders it was and if/then. If he is not sufficiently stressed by life, then edge and tell me about it. 

But I had given him the option that if he acquired guilt he could purge it in scouring. I am attracted to anxious people, and understand a fair amount about their psychology, one part being the painful state of feeling insecure about disappointing long after the disappointed party has gotten over it. And I know any anxious person go into a guilt spiral when they contemplate the comfort of being told something they feel they caused is still pricking them.

Punishment here is an act of reassurance. I mean, ultimately it’s makeup sex for kinky people, something we mutually enjoy to turn off the scumbag brain going NoNoNoBad 

I can’t, with distance and Covid19, obviously do pain play the usual ways, but while I am not a fan of the self spanking (I think I could get into literal self flagelation with a knotted rope scourge, but we don’t have one), we have the pavloc and the relative safety of stress positions.

Although pushing a button to make a zap, wince and erection throb will never get old, I like stress positions in particular, for Silver, because he is in meticulous physical shape (my cute little gym bunny!) and is the sort of person to whom if you said “fuck yourself until you are tired” he would do so not until his arm was sore, but until he was a weakly twitching heap on the carpet.

Summoning my disciplinarian voice, which for the record, is still in the territory of “croon”, but conveys a slight edge to ratchet tension, I ordered him to strip. This, he did so, shucking off clothes with wild abandon.

So I made him stop, remember to fold everything neatly.  I enjoyed the enthusiasm he peeled off with, don’t get me wrong. There’s an erotic thrill in the strip and toss, but the Aesthetic is a dominant’s most useful weapon in maintaining a unified mood.

Chastened by my observation of his flattering but accidentally disobedient display of eagerness, everything else was removed and duly folded, then piled in a tidy stack and held, fancy waiter style, on a flat palm with arm extended.

He edged for me and I corrected him accordingly, reminding him I would never discourage him from being excited, but he still needed to remember for the sake of remembering, and finding satisfaction, we moved on.

I made him hold the stress position called “motorcycle” which is basically a wall sit sans wall and with your arms up, and edge the three times he said he missed. During that he had to repeat several times, the first because he forgot to count out loud (to be fair I didn’t tell him to) and the next few times because his legs had enough.

Anguished, exhausted, vulnerable. I stressed that not doing wasn’t the failure as much as not telling me. And that I didn’t mind him collapsing and trying over and over again.

As much as he endured for me, I also layered on cooing, encouragement, reassurance. I am a sadist with a soft heart. I love his suffering and making him so makes me gooey inside. My physical arousal at each desperate groan when is strength gave out was matched with a certain sympathy.

Good boy. In the aftermath of his punishment the topic turned to the erotic, asking him when he did have free permission to cum (basically before me). What moment in fantasy was his release?

We all have our triggers. Mine is usually when the text hits a climax demonstration of some symbolic extreme loss of agency. Not shockingly I tend to read a lot of modification, brainwashing and captivity stories. And, as I mentioned these are often vile, physically impossible nonsense, and most definitely the sort of stuff we firmly call “cnc” to separate the barrier between really wanting to keep someone in your basement and imaging elaborate scenarios where this might be possible but no real persons are harmed.

His trip, more often than not, is the moment when the victim-protagonist succumbs to the control, hypnotic or otherwise, usually a symptom there of being their own orgasm.

So thus, I pushed, no orgasm until I take something from him permanently, only endless edging. He could either wait until I take his virginity in October (mine now!), or come up with something else.

Right hand continuously stroking a rather immensely thick erection, he thought for a moment and daringly suggested his twitter user name.

“You have a twitter account?”

Yes, lurking to follow points of interest, including a quiet follow when I first propositioned him back in November 2019 (American Thanksgiving), after I gave him my various and sundry online details so he could get to know my sexuality. Unlike Ferns, I treat my body of work so important to my core self that I do not want sexual or romantic contact with someone who has no interest in it.

Also of course, predating me, Silver quietly follows other content makers and dommes, either past service providers or persons of interest- this being the actual revelation. I actually am not sure what to do with that information since while I am a big believer in healthy relationships when practical with exes and in trust that it’s fine to think your friends, or other people are hot, I am not sure I want to pry into what feels like their intimacies.

For example, I enjoyed him sharing a few past scene photos providers had snapped of him, but in these cases the “she” wasn’t in the photo and I could admire her work more abstractly.

Providers aren’t exes, but they add the desire in me to treat them with the same respect and accommodation. Although I find the “true love waits” purity of a one partner only rhetoric alarming, I see the concept that intimacy and romance change a person, paid or otherwise, as a feature not a bug.

But, obviously providers don’t want some civie patiently slotting them into the same category I do of former members of my kid brother’s polycule, which is to say a distant sense of positive obligation that they have remotely plausible chance to turn up and be given a cup of tea.

So I get ridiculously British concerned about manners over it, a sort of fumbling divide by zero where I am feeling awkward because I am imagining a dominatrix bothering to reach out to a former, fairly casual client to catch up because she is in town or whatever. I project that role onto a hypothetical *them* and then immediately feel wildly embarrassed about daring to presume. Because obviously that isn’t plausible.

You can add a third meta hypothetical of said poor dominatrix standing in my kitchen patiently looking perplexed while my overly fussy brain steams out the ears harder than the kettle I am making her tea with.

Back to the moment (and erection) at hand

It’s not the first time Silver’s told me something relationship related mid-edge. Last time I ordered him to confess I learned, while pumping his cock, that he had politely sent his former dominatrix a letter cancelling her (er, his?) services and told his parents I existed. 

I think it’s kind of endearing that unless he’s come recently, my presence tends to cause the urge to furiously masturbate. 

I teased him about being “sneaky”, and I admit to a little spur of sharpness, even though contextually it was something that made the most practical sense, mostly because I assumed he did not have one after he mentioned not wanting to participate in the hurly burly of the barely moderated social sphere.

But, I also reassured, enjoying the bit of fight and the vulnerability of having a secret pocket he compulsively had withheld.

I leaned into this, pushing for more, asking what else, and he offered out handing over previously stashed erotica and porn (not to deny by my preference, rather as intimate data).  

Yes, but I knew he had those. What else?

He had a pause here, a mental barrel scrape, and I observed something very true but very difficult.

With every relationship, within 1 to 6 months, that person’s core structure become self evident, non-negotiables that I accept. Silver is an intensely private person. He will omit to mention things you would think were normal- not just a sort of grey rock, but affecting a river tumbled smoothness.

He would never give you his opinion on politics or share the latest documentary he is listening to. He wouldn’t mention an event he attended and spare any show of temper, blanketed under the most careful bland patience, withdrawing from the hint of social drama.

I had previously accepted pieces of him will surface in their own time. We might be ancient and well wizened decades from now, only for me to discover that every day he takes ten minutes to do an act of anonymous charity, or that he is a huge fan of 90s EuroPop sensation Aqua.

But, without thinking it would be hurtful, I teased about his tendency to lie by omission.  I had meant to underline the known contrast that Silver is deeply submissive and immensely independent and individualistic. It did not carry that.

This isn’t the first time I have played with the real. The other week I did a mind fuck, narrating that his (normal) anxieties about the relationship were actually his real self asserting over my seductive hypnosis, producing extremely aroused shivers of fear from him.

This time he visibly shrank back a bit and his eyes took on a hurt cast, small an vulnerable. I could not and would not eroticize that. His penis, previously rock hard, gently curled towards the left. 

Oops.

Silver did not cry off, but after a moment of reading his expression I did, breaking tone. There’s a difference in the way I use my voice, and had I been there in person it would be my arms that held him.

I do have to be careful, for me what is a reasonable right to privacy, is not necessarily a part of the self everyone is proud of. I told him that I loved the whole him, that I didn’t need all truths just for the sake of collecting them and preferred him to keep his space and secrets. 

Even these blog posts are run through him first, catching anything, in description of his life or our shared intimacy, that is too much and too raw to feed to the world.

Me keeping a blog is non-negotiable, me treating his own story with care is reasonable.

He told me that it was a hard moment where he thought he might safeword but he also thought I was really upset. And obviously, in his mind, he couldn’t safeword out of my raw feelings?

I told him he very well could. It is ok to take a break on a heated or difficult discussion, to make some things off limits, even to someone who loves you. 

Obviously there are practicals, but ultimately short of trying to shut down “aaaugh you are literally on fire” a safeword is BDSM’s best contribution to interpersonal relationships. 

We talked a bit until the raw feelings dissipated, in in the way that we do my words began to arouse him again, drawing his cock back up skyward and him restored. And I took back that purr of presence, by gesture and word telling him I was forcing him to come for me. 

Swift, hard, and with a complex sort of regret. Tease and denial versus making a man come is a bit of wanting to have my cake and eat it too. I want that rapt attention and desperation, but also I want him to have that mind blanking sensation of release. 

And then cozy discussion after, the usual routine, cupped palm to avoid anointing the carpet with thwarted biological imperative, rinse, towel around his middle. Chatting about the week ahead, we pretend covid and the US political situation wasn’t ominously intervening on the earnestness of our longings.

Parting ways a tiny bit of sad quirked, and he picked up on it and asked if something was wrong. I explained that I was just labile after, and it wasn’t his place to need to reassure me for something that was a bit of echo sad for finding a boundary. I told him, honestly, it would dissipate on it’s own.

By the next day it’s mostly gone, and fits into my knowledge that my ability to deserve trust as a dominant is not born of telepathy but testing, and proof that I won’t mangle things when tenderness is needed.

I discussed this with Silver a bit more than his usual read through because it deals so much with his vulnerability. I do ask you treat the privilege of his consent to share with the same respect I do.

Sonnet III for Silver

How can my joy hurt such to make me weep?
Your first words to me at each starting day;
Your last spoken when you stop to sleep.
First in my thoughts, but so very far away

Lithe, love, light and pale as the summer grass;
Clever fast and lusty, gifted in your wit.
Patient with my heart: sharp & frail as glass
Perversity met, matched- as a glove may fit.

My whims & needs as much your fondest treasure
You I may wanton toy, hurt & restrain
& yet you strive to bring me more pleasure
And smile to give your thank yous for the pain.

So if this year’s chances keep us apart
To have you is well worth a heavy heart


I caught myself crying again, while doing laundry. It’s a scary time, with the uncertainty of what might be, between going back to work after sick leave, watching the rather grim situation in the US and the world. But, love is such that, suck or not, I would rather miss him than not have him to miss.

He stoically puts up with my poetry.

Covert Kink, Desperation, and Crossborder Femdom in Covid19

I don’t want to make a spectacle. Regardless of my personal politics of wanting a world where collars are as welcome as wedding rings, we want to go some place private and fuck, not have our covert kink in a national park.

I want him chained to my bed, instead I am picking a goth lite outfit, and a cream and blue picnic tablecloth, while refreshing the weather report over and over again.

We definitely do not want to make our way through the neatly manicured lawns of the park, and past every other couple doing the same thing to find this relative privacy. I have to throw a blanket over our laps because my nibbling on his ear gets him rock hard, and all our twining up together causes my skirt to ride up to my waist.

From time to time there is a pause as passerbys stray too close. We are mindful of the fact that this is a “family” park. I think there was even a wedding going on at one point.

Fuck. I want to practice the glide of a strapon in and out of his ass, and instead we are discovering an advanced form of footsie.

A boomer grandpa, local, notes we have been there almost long enough “to pay taxes”. Silver deflect politely would that jocular kind of conflict prevention Midwest politeness that he seems to manage to keep everyone at arm’s length with. 

I really, really don’t want any of these people involved in my love life, but here we are, like a couple of teenagers dodging our parents, sighing with a sticky yearning that glues our gaze to each other. This is time two, last time was for my birthday, covertly hypnotizing my submissive at the park.

But it’s a date, and I have taken care with my makeup, although the humidity pulls my dark hair into curls. A halo of short pieces standing up about my scalp, while the first hints of my grey hair peek where I will brush dye this week to turn it back dark. Nonetheless, I feel content that I look pretty, and feel myself. The only real hint of sexuality is black thigh highs, opaque and fixed to my pale skin with sock glue.

Silver’s dressed casually too, just like last time. Fabric soft to my touch, tasteful, and if you didn’t know there was a pattern, rather camouflaged by maleness to appear invisible. I guess the word is Normcore? I like it. He makes me feel safe in a way I haven’t figured out how to articulate completely yet.

He also brings other supplies in a black duffel bag, and a slightly imperfect latte order, which he handles getting wrong with an acceptance I prefer. The picnic lunch for me is berries, olives, cherries and smoked salmon, and for him a simple wrap.

I meet him where the path leads off into the American parking, hopping the edge of a decorative flower bed to get closer quicker to kiss him. Over the course of this long quarantine he’s lost a little bit of weight, and I feel it when we press together. As usual he has almost no scent other than the imperceptible pheromones that I suppose you can’t really put a smell label to, but there is that warmth in aliveness of another human, and that presence that I love.

By now in our relationship I’ve learned the density of his body the stiffness so well, I could recognize him by touch. It’s an exploration that started the first time I pushed him down onto his carpet. I can’t be so bold, here in the park.

But femdom isn’t about the obvious costumes, and it isn’t about needing elaborate furniture. It’s not even about sweeping gestures you can see from a mile away. I can be subtle and I can be so appropriate I could carry on in the front pews of a church. I fit our dynamic into this space, where it belongs.

The only hint of what we’ve done so far is like an inside joke only we get: a pocket watch that hangs around my neck on a long brass tinted chain. It doesn’t look naughty, and if you weren’t a hypnosis fetishist or you didn’t know what we did together, you wouldn’t know what it implied. When I show it to him, after we’re cuddled up together, he ends up with his hand wrapped around. 

It’s less what I do, this time, but what it means.

It means I love him. It means that I see the idea of swinging a watch and speaking in a trance pulling sing-song sexy. It means that I meet him half-way on any perversion, not out of indulgence but because it makes me wet.

So much of kink really is just elaborately overwrought romantic gestures with a fig leaf of harshness. All the business of collars and promises of obedience, and the other ridiculous backstage scaffold to make power exchange work, ridiculous romantic drama. I swear half the attraction to this is your ability to go over the top and keep your street cred.

Take our little bit of sneaky bondage: binding Silver’s wrists with a hand dyed grey silk ribbon. The gesture is covert kink again and not so obviously in bondagey anyone can tell what we are doing. Later, the ribbon ends up around his neck as an eccentric accessory.

Who specifically obsesses for weeks over finding ribbon soft and perfect enough to be suitable? The poor etsy purveyor who expected to sell it to decorate bridal bouquets contends with a lower star rating because I think it frays too much for the aesthetic I wanted.

I care so darn much about these things.

Meanwhile, his urge to serve means he has yet again brought me flowers, this time pink lilies, with almost tiger like stripes. He wants to give more to me. I can tell he really does.

Normal relationships don’t let you do that kind of thing. You would come across as weird and obsessive. Maybe on special ritual occasions it would be permitted, but things like him automatically bringing me a bouquet just for this casual little hangout (at least for white educated, middle class leftie nerds), would otherwise be seen as a bit much. Here? Perfect.

I think as much as people focus on kink as whips, leather and giving yourself as an object, kink is just as much about the permission to transgress social boundaries without transgressing personal boundaries. It’s the meaning we assign to symbols, not the symbols themselves that have the power.

And some covert kink is more physically hidden.

It’s funny, even with hours of the spooning up together, for the first half we talked about very little. I suppose that’s why they call it sweet nothings; coming up with a dozen synonyms to say that you love someone.

He discovered a new cruelty in this situation. Because we do not want this to be shared with the public, when I touch him, I command him not to move. Not one wriggle, hump or thrust. Nothing to get more sensation than what I give him, and the moment that unavoidable biological programming makes him break, I stop.

And then he collects himself and, when I know I won’t violate anyone else’s comfort, I start again.

He says I have ruined him in a dreamy sort of voice, before flopping off to the side. It’s terribly butterflies inside producing for me, making him this helpless.

The worst, for him, is when he is kneeling in front of me, just about the length of my legs, far enough to have to lean to kiss me. My dextrous feet find the outline of his cock through his pants and up between his leg, pressing that spot where that length of his cock tucks back into his body. Silver is built so it is uniquely close to the surface, and that grab between the legs turns him into a submissive puddle. This is barely a pat, but because we have that shared memory, if I can’t just handle him like we do in private, I can take him close to that place.

I have long toes, and a fair amount of flexibility in my feet. This is easy, sitting sock footed, grinding and stroking his cock with the ball and arch of my left foot, while my right keeps up the pressure on his perineum. All this is concealed away under a blanket and his palms, by my command, stay flat on the ground. It’s also memories of being a silly dumb teenager in a park with another virgin, doing way too much PDA. He’s “middle aged”, I am almost there. I see what people mean when they say love makes you feel young again.

Remember: No moving. No hints. Keep it hidden. Keep it tasteful.

At one point he gets so overwhelmed that he reveals another quirk: his natural tendency to bite.

The poor thing is self conscious about it. I had my suspicions when he out of the blue suggested biting my breasts the first time he got his mouth on them. He swore he was simply anticipating my masochism.

Silly man, your secrets are all mine eventually. I know what you crave even before you have learned to articulate it.

The next round of teasing my hand is in his mouth, ordering him to bite down. I am much too aroused to find this painful and I enjoy forcing him into what he likes.

It’s a fun kind of dehumanizing. After, each time I have matched prints and realize some upper middle class dental requirements of his childhood took a couple of the front teeth, to give him that perfect white, even American smile.

He seems perplexed at the tooth imprints  even as I admire them, and kisses them at my command. He says he feels like he should apologise and I tell him if he does that I will slap him.

I watch his mind process that, until a smile of complete content smugness washes over his face. He realized the game is rigged: He always wins, exactly the way I want him to.

One apology later and I deliver a pop-slap from a short distance, discreetly but with a sting. That’s the least covert kink activity the whole time, very careful.

The real and heavy.

The last hour gets oddly serious because I talk about my trauma. We are discussing the general operation of our brains- him navigating not wanting to insult me by saying that had our connection via pastimes ceased, prior to the revelation of my interest in him and my kinks he would have continued merrily along in bachelor isolation.

Nerd love. He is an island unto himself, I described myself as having a personal affect like the Prince Ali number midway through Aladdin. I am not an open book, I am an animated billboard spelling out my seemingly innermost thoughts.

You, reader, cannot hurt me as you have no access to this vulnerability: that I could be made happy in a way that made me care if I got more. Silver and I have managed to mutually catch each other by something we deeply need.

So it takes more courage to gently let him know just how insecure I am. That my initial refusal of random acts of delivery soup when I am ill, or being doted on with material things is a particular kind of lengthy damage.

There’s that Hozier song “It will come back”.

I know who I am when I’m alone/

Something else when I see you/

You don’t understand, you should never know/

How easy you are to need/

Hozier

The kind of damage you give a child by alternatively depriving and smothering them. Where they learn to be wary in love, because that’s how you get got.

It’s not a kink thing, where I dominate because my mother abused me and my father abandoned me. My desires exist separate to that. On the contrary the predation of my kinks get tangled up in the gunshy vulnerability of a serial abuse victim- I don’t feel submissive in this vulnerability, but I feel more cautious because to let someone submit to me is to open myself to joy.

It’s always been easy to love someone, and never been easy to be loved properly.

Last week, as well as enduring seventeen days of migraine, I examined my history in the context of past relationship choices. Brain weasels skip about. I feel incredibly embarrassed about this.

But it is who I am and what I feel.

Canada will later extend the border closure, surprising neither of us. By the time this is written, the park will be closed again on the Canadian side, citing that the sheer parking overflow was causing issues, even if the meetings themselves were safe. A petition to reopen the park is at over 2500 signatures now, and ticking up, but who knows when or if I will hold him in my arms again?

But, we endure. What other choice do we have, for now?

Image provided with permission, by Pen & Kink

Teasing Wildcard- Femdom Sex and Lovelife Updates

I want him to want me. It’s a powerful ache, indistinguishable from the sort of desire people would think of as “horny”, a straight trip into wet and throbbing, with a scenic view of my ego, made on a road paved with my vulnerabilities.

Usually, it’s easy to make myself happy without another person- anyone with a decent supply of pornography or at least an active imagination and the capacity to orgasm can take the basic pressure off. Desire for desire and power games are why I bother with other people, rather than just fucking myself. Well, that and falling in love, but the body urge that sustains it takes its power out of the first two things.

So I seek and touch and look for cues that my effect is working. I adore grinding up against a man, him feeling the unmistakable roundness of my ass with all those stimulating places on me pressed to his groin, letting the muscles of my thighs work, up-down, pushing against him until I can feel that familiar lurch as his weight starts to shift onto you as he weakens with lust, and the way he reacts when you pull away.

I often dress to please myself by pleasing the eye of person I want to tease. I got lucky with bodies, or at least I think I am blessed, breasts and hips that do as they are bid and few overwhelming hangups- enough of a little of everything like tools in a kit: sharp collar bones, pale nipples, nipped waist, cream soft thick thigh and thin wrist and ankle, enough that’s average and exaggerated to let me play with both. But I like my body best when it is being a lure. I like to feel like I’m hunting and baiting and my skin feels shivery and fitted best to me when I pull his gaze.

Like all things to do with sex with me, it’s unnecessarily complicated and personal. Wildcard reacts best if I initiate sex, but is very coy and careful- tug or pull the wrong way and something tears or breaks and the immaculately self contained facade melts into water, rushing out or becoming un-graspable as he slips away completely into himself. I did not pick a partner who came prepared to surrender, but one who has to be lured there.

He speaks in subtle things, but seldom seems to notice little touches, or prefers to pretend he doesn’t feel the hints in our brushing legs or my fingers on his arm. I can kiss him and still feel a distance. At times, to push past this, I am blatant, outright forcing him to look. Last week, feeling impish, I set him to the task of preparing dinner and then joined him, stripping off my clothes, layer by layer until I was naked except for a line of black jewels down my sternum. It was my pleasure to touch him how I wanted but deny him, and delight in his aggravation when I added high satin pumps to parade my nude self past him, hearing him groan. “Oh come on!” before he followed me around trying to get my denying self to give him some release.

Often, he ends up on his back, my hand circled around his cock. He takes the gentlest stroking, like some sort of fragile creature. It reminds me of holding a snake, the way that it is at once clearly rigid, and alive and able to give and shift and respond to your warmth, but the skin is so velvety, the softest thing I’ve ever touched. I make him beg to cum, sometimes pressing him between my breasts, or adding a palmful of wet and slippery lube or licking and sucking him until I’ve made him wet with me.

And he just can’t resist. And for me, that desperation is downright addictive.

Love Me Properly

So Strong and I had a candid post mortum tonight about the failure of our relationship and I made sure to be honest about where life has taken me. I am in an odd dilemma, to be loved, by many, but not quite in the way that I wish.

I find myself playing with hearts, accidentally. Perhaps spurred by Strong’s instance that I look elsewhere to get my needs met, my deck is overloaded with people who I’m afraid of hurting, with one wildcard that has to play himself. Tease and denial comes easily with dominance, and yet when it comes with suitors, excessive insistence of my glory sends me scattering. I hate the idea of having victims who aren’t willingly tying themselves to the post, but are doing it for desire for something more. Maybe that’s part of what makes me deeply suspicious of acts of service, more so than I should be?

And I had my heart taken, accidentally, as if it were book picked up by error, but then the borrower had become engrossed in reading what he found. Unfortunately that’s a situation that’s providing my least favourite thing in interpersonal relationships: waiting on someone else’s will and willpower. I am not, but nature, good at that kind of patience. Trust is not a natural part of my makeup, least of all trust and faith and others (not with my independence levels), nor do I like passivity. But, regardless, the situation the gentleman has is something where if I try to intervene I’m in the wrong. I can’t lift a single finger, not to push or to beckon.

It makes me think about love as it should be, for me. I’ve never been about being impressed with expensive gifts. The Ex, the one I spent six years with, compared my needs to being that of a pet rock- I never made demands, not for jewellery, flowers or fancy dinners (I like eating, but I’m not good at taking)- and honestly, I was an expert at self sacrificing care taking for him. And yet, my way of love has been about doing on the small scale. That doesn’t really fit stereotypical D/s femdom well- my ‘tribute’ wishlist is a joke loaded with beef jerky.

And yet, I bought myself tea roses this week, my favourite. Strong charmed me with unexpected chocolates, once upon a time, and once, a boy charmed me, by passing me a cheap chocolate egg. Compliments get me blushing. Somewhere is a chink in that armour. I want the romance, I just don’t want to feel it’s a big deal.

To love my properly, it seems, takes courage, self confidence, occasional capacity to cruelty, and yet acts of kindness. I need someone who can yield to me where I want it, but stand for me and with me when I need it. If that ends in me being a spinster maiden aunt in the end, so be it.

(amendment)

Shut up Tashi. 😛