Eating Ayn Rand

He is an eager puppy, and everything I do is wonderful. I am not particularly surprised; this has been the nature of my interaction with the opposite sex, at least since nerdy boys discovered nerdy girls. They become stunned and impressed that someone else simply exists as she does.

I cut my teeth on boys like that, and I could call them chew toys, but that doesn’t really get across their nuanced feeling, because it isn’t contempt. I perceive them as humans with inherent worth and dignity and yadda, yadda.

But sometimes that is the enthusiasm in the proper consent to abuse them in a way that you both want.

Letterkenny comes from a small town and has found a way to make his hobby successful professionally in the big city of Vancouver. He asks me to ramen, and I, generally trying to maintain this period of manic self reflection, allow it. He is delighted and my quick wit, even when it is cruel.

The date goes south when he tells anecdotes about kink in the funny-haha sense, but he’s so happy to be there and listen to me talk that it feeds the hunger a bit. The ramen, honestly, is too oily, and all I can taste is literal schmaltz.

I tell him flat out I’m a femdom, what I am into and what I like and want.

Of course he has no idea how to react to my candid frankness, particularly when I decide to test if there is anything . I don’t feel sparks but I do feel power

I make him blush repeatedly until Letterkenny is at risk of developing a permanent flush. He’s a Nice Boy and completely disarming, and I am old, and jaded and with a saw and spine covered tongue tongue. Measuring him, I decide that his potential is limited otherwise by my pointed questions.

He is not particularly kink experienced and occupying that zone of “Curious” I now dread a bit. Nobody wants to be someone’s experiment, where you bring your half, to find them show up with a couple of handfuls of pocket lint and an apologetic smile. Guarded, I push out a bit.

Letterkenny opens up a bit more than perhaps one might, but then again I lack anxiety on this kind of thing. Once you work out the rape, murder and stalking risks of allowing men any measure of familiarity, most other perils pale by comparison. And I have a knack for making boys open up- largely, in case you are wondering how, taking a sincere unfaked interest.

You know… I could beat you up tonight, if you wanted.

I watch him wheeze and stumble about. He desperately wanted this moment, hot, smart, interested, sexually forward. Here is his “shot”. He takes the offer and I watch the progress of the night from there, with a sort of detached bemusement.

Transit is a cross city, rain trip. I already made it clear it’s a work night and I have no interest in being out at all hours. The trip ate almost forty minutes or so, and I used this to run down limits and nail particulars as well as assure the terms of consent so he knew her could withdraw at any time. He had obviously not planned this and not cleaned his place, which he warned. This, itself wouldn’t have sent the evening on such a turn if not for one other little thing.

Waiting for him to freshen up a bit in the washroom, sitting among the other books in the book case, I found the fat spine of “The Fountainhead”.

Oh. Bother. He seemed pretty reasonable and concerned about boundaries to this point, but here I am. And he’s returned from the washroom and… fuck it.

“What’s this?” I’ve checked in, he’s ready to start.

He names the book I’m holding in front of him. I ask him what he thinks of it, he says the message of finding meaning in your work resonates with him, although he admits it can be a bit long winded.

I instruct him to open his mouth and hold the book there, gagging him. I tell him with explicit openness that it is revolting, that Libertarianism is like a cock cage for your personality. That women are disproportionately employed in the public sector because the nature of its hiring practices allow us the benefits of a meritocracy.

Through this, he looks a mixture of mortified and stunned. He ends up on his back, straddled, with a few more invectives and verbal jabs and I explore a little. Of all things I could pick at – his self deprecating about his penis, his openness about his little life struggles, a book snatched from his book case is the wedge I crack him open with.

It’s real and I am real with the contempt, but I move from there from the most mild picking and poking to see if he has any capacity from there. Letterkenny becomes truly terrified, pupils wide and a sort of fascinated paralyis on him. I pause, check in, “What are you so afraid off?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

There, the reactive problem, a lot of men hit this one, horrid creature prodding them and they go not to weak at the knees, but lash out, and they fear that lack of submission as a dangerous capacity. And so I sooth now, the nastiness tucked away as claws return to softest paw. Shhh, baby, it’s ok. Shh. I pull him out of the fear.

I discern that as I suspected, he’s a curious sexual tourist, attracted to the openness, but not particularly into it- just into me. And I will not go further there. I make my aftercare, tending to him, hold him for a bit. There will not be another time for him. Not right for me, not what I wanted, though I did him no harm and gave him his chance.

I leave him with the full imprint of his top and bottom teeth in the spine of the book, and the suggestion not to come until he cleans his place, with literally no confidence he has the capacity.

A post script, an acquaintance of mine though volunteering lays a pass on me when I get home. I decline for any number of reasons, but I think to myself as I consider my post ramen adventure- this fellow sees himself as an intellectual and a conservative- I somehow doubt whatever drew him to me has room to be made to eat, if not his words, the ones I disapprove of.

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