In the Pink

Survey -- short and sweet:

How difficult is it to understand that discretion is and always will be a part of life in this community?

1. You don't even have to tell me, discretion is my middle name.
2. Yes, I get it, although I don't need it so it takes a special effort to remember.
3. Discretion is needed? Really? Never thought of it, but I'll remember that in future.
4. Discretion? Why? Doesn't everyone LIKE sado-masochism thrust in their face? Bizarre.
5. Ow, my head hurts.

How difficult is it to understand that when someone says "keep the address to yourself so we can look out for and protect the safety and security of others" they mean "Do NOT pass on this information to anyone else"?

1. Got it.
2. Er... OK, got it now.
3. Er... *DON'T pass on the info? Yes? OK.
4. Pass on what info? Oh that? Oh... alright then.
5. Ow, someone shoot me.

I swear to god, people, I am just DONE IN with the blithering idiocy that I encounter sometimes.

Naturally, none of this rant is aimed at anyone with the grace, charm and wit required to want to read this blog. None of this refer to any of you, of course.

No names have been specified in order to protect the guilty (not to mention twattishly stupid), but fear not, gentle reader. What goes around, comes around.

Karma is a bitch, and she wears my collar*.

Ooof!

*See previous posts for discussion of my adulation of the Parking Gods, and what I achieve by this.

I think my IUD is transmitting radio signals... to somewhere... or someone.

Srsly.

I feel a vibration, not that I'm necessarily complaining, that is inexplicable.

The reasoning that I have come up with covers the following options:

-- Aliens have connected with my cunt and are monitoring the Earth from there, with possible intent to invade.

-- I swallowed an electric probe without noticing, and it's taken up semi-permanent residence in my vajayjay.

-- I am the old (relatively) woman who swallowed a fly, and that's where it ended up.

-- Dan has installed a "pet chip" in me.

Fucking bizarre, whatever the reason.

Le deep et heavy sigh.

(I really hope it's not the aliens.)

Anyone able to relate?

Random email from a stranger on the Cage:

No content, only a subject header:

"What is your phone number please?"

My reply:

"Dude -- do me a favour -- if this approach ever works for you, let me know so that I can start watching out for flying elephants."

Sheesh!!

...can I not stop goddamfucken sneezing?

It had been touch and go whether we'd meet. A combination of industrial work issues raising their ugly heads, and allergies affecting the delicate sinuses of a particular evil, mean and rotten cat, had conspired to stop us from meeting.

However, meet we did. Conspire away, corrupt industry and evil dust. You'll never take me alive!

******************************

It occurred to me, at one point, that I was losing my grip on reality. Which is fine in the context of a session. Slipping into subspace is, while not exactly de rigeur, certainly a desired effect. He loves watching me lose my usually demure and mature attitude as I dissolve into a small cuddly heap of ecstatically sighing happy kitty.

And i love having him watch as I do.

I remember lying on my front, facing away from him, as he relentlessly thrust his hand into me. Managing to hit both my G-spot and my clit simultaneously, I alternately sighed, moaned, yowled and screamed as he coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of me. It almost felt as though it was too much, but then as that thought began to flit across my mind, another peak hit. I shuddered to the most earth shattering climax yet, and wondered incredulously at myself.

How could it ever be too much?

"Turn yourself around, Tabby le Pink. Come and lie next to me."

"Are you going to move your fist from inside me?"

"No."

Which meant that turning around suddenly required a great deal of twisting and unsually balletic movements. I pride myself on my ability to execute the occasional vertical less-than-graceless dance movement, regardless of how I may appear as I perform it. But horizontally, all bets are off.

But I did it. He has that kind of effect on me.

He continued to tease and probe me incessantly to my sheer delight, except now he was looking into my eyes. Then he leaned forward and kissed me -- tenderly at first, soft and sweet, then blossoming into levels of passion and excitement that excited me yet further.

How had I even considered thinking that it was too much? What was wrong with me?

Breaking from the kiss, he stroked my hair off my face as he gazed down at me lovingly.

"You look so lovely."

I blushed. He continued.

"I love being with you. I love fisting you, I love fucking you. I love you, my Pink Tabby."

I sighed happily, and reached up to kiss him again. He accepted the gesture lovingly. Appreciatively. I love kissing him. I love fucking him. I love everything about being with him, whether physically, spiritually or mentally.

I sighed.

"I love you too. So very much." And he held me tightly.

A couple of nights later, I had an epiphany. I realised that I was being a fool to myself to focus on the negative things in life, when i had this wonderful, positive thing going on for me.

Too much indeed. Who was I kidding?

All I can say is, if you swat a kitty on the nose, she will scratch. Possibly on purpose (not in this case) but always in self-defence.

There are simply lines one should not cross. 😜

Ahem.

So, yes -- I have returned from the land of the dead, my hectic life has returned to its usual frenetic pace and I have barely enough time to think, never mind blog.

I'm a bit blocked right now -- from writing, I mean. I'm not discussing the state of my gut and it's after-effects. I'm a smidge scatophobic and I wouldn't assume that my wider readership would be interested in a full-scale discussion of poo.

Of course, one should never assume about other peoples; fetishes. For those of you who are interested in scatophilia and would like a report on the state of my bowels at any given stage in the day (and I know precisely what's going on at specific times, I can assure you), do drop me a line and I'll send you an invitation to the next time I have dinner at my parent's place, where bowel movements, toilet visits and all things poo-related usually come up over the dinner table.

And I know I'm not alone in this. I believe it's a pan-Mosaic tradition -- I have heard similar tales from other friends from a wide variety of Jewish backgrounds -- and have questioned many non-Jewish people and heard nothing but shock, horror and amazment. ("Poo? As an after-dinner conversation? Euw." See, you can tell they weren't Jewish -- if they were, they'd have said "Feh.") Although, that said, they were almost all of them English, which might have been a factor. I don't know how certain echelons of American or Australian or Brazilian or even outer Mongolian people behave at the dinner table with regards to the de rigeur discussions of bowel movements.

In my family, it's the way it is. Yet here I am talking of lines not to cross -- I think I just crossed a couple.

Well, you can't say I didn't warn you.

😄

I cannot get this song out of my head.

Wonderful.

There was an episode of Cheers, many years ago, where Sam, ever the errant Lothario, phones Rebecca's parents in an attempt to discover the name of the one song that she couldn't resist, the song that would veritably turn her knees to butter.

Her song, if I recollect accurately -- and god alone knows if I do, I'm so blonde lately -- was Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers.

Mine is this: