In the Pink

The title does not refer to vaginal dryness, but thanks for the concern. 😄

Rather it is of lack of muse and writing inspiration. Don't know why. I should be bubbling over with news and excitement about the munch and how well it went -- gauged, I might add, by the obvious enjoyment of the attendees who were there.

Even the EMRF, who is the originator of munches Israeli-or-thereabouts (wherever the border does or should fall according to your opinion) was all sparkly and excited about the evening. Managing to impress the biggest baddest cat in the yard makes me a very happy kitty.

Plus I got to meet a ton of people, put faces to nicknames and email addresses, and really enjoy myself, despite my inner neurotic doing her damnedest to ensure that I didn't. Heh. Fuck her.

You know, I organize the munch for mostly altruistic reasons. I just figured that if I was going to be in the community, it should be the kind of community I'd want to be in. Sort of an antithesis to the Groucho Marx "I wouldn't want to be part of a club that would have me as a member" approach. I love the fact that the munch is becoming more widely recognized and accepted as part of the local scene colour -- it makes all the effort worthwhile -- even the mean and nasty communiques.

If it hadn't been for the welcome i received from Shuki Ha Razeh, aka Trannyboi -- bless him -- when i first poked my toe into the waters of the local community, the munch resurrection (easy, tiger) would never have happened. I challenged him to help me create something out of nothing -- and he picked up the gauntlet and kindly allowed me to bitchslap him with it. Without Shuki, there would have been no munch, and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank him publicly. He's a wonderful person, and I'm proud to call him a friend.

But as for a blog post -- nothing doing. Too fuckin' tired. Keep coming up dry when i search for inspiration.

Just one of those days, I guess.

Still, after the week I had -- I'm not complaining.

This is what I am.

A pervert, undiluted, unabashed and unashamed.

It is what it is.

I realised this the other day, as I attemtped to refill Purrrrvert's drinking glass.

The difficulties were that my wrists were cuffed to my ankles. He, of course, regarded the whole scene with an amused smirk on his face, and accepted the drink as his rightful due, before rolling me back on the bed and having his wicked way with me again.

(Oh, poor, poor me.)

I accept who I am, what I am.

I've never felt so alive, or so free.

Even when restrained -- and perhaps especially then.

Please understand, people, that here I reveal myself as a geek of the highest level.

But let's keep that between ourselves, yes?

Here is my favourite version of the oft-parodied "Last Days of Hitler" -- this particular version is called "Grammar Nazis".

Why does this make me a Geek, I hear you cry in -- what is that, shock? horror? abject amusement? Answer: well, it kinda doesn't. It was what I saw that made me laugh and reminded me of this that makes me the Geek.

And that was this "girsa" of the parody:

Holy fuck me slowly.

Check it out: File under creepy... ugh, shudder.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. 😄

Physically, not mentally. Well, OK, maybe there's room for debate there too. But I am specifically talking about physically today.

I mentioned a while back that my finger was hurting me and I was concerning it might be arthritis, and a revisitation upon me from the Parking Gods who are punishing me in the bad way for having clicked my fingers all these years. My dear friend Astaro reassured me that this was unlikely the cause, since he'd met a Very Important Person who Knows This Sort of Thing, an Expert, no less, and the theory that the clicking causes arthritis is just so much hooey.

It turns out that he was correct -- no one knows what causes arthritis. Thing is, I don't care. I may have it anyway.

Le sigh.

And it hu-u-u-u-u-u-rts.

Still. Whatcha gonna do?

Commiserations most welcome in the comments section -- you know you want to...

It may have caught your attention, gentle reader, that i am no longer as present on this wonderful site as once I was.

The NSFW-ness of the site has finally been noticed by the IT Powers-That-Be and has been banned from access by anyone with our work IP address.

Which sucketh, big time.

Anyhoo. Today is my birthday. Yay me! Another year older, and with any luck, another year wiser. My age, which I don't care about on an existential level, is nudging at my vanity in a finger-poke-y sort of way, and my vanity cares for this not one whit.

I'm happier now, than I was when I was younger. While there are doubtless more things I need to learn, modify and fix before I am supremely all-time happy (on a personal level -- not that all the ducks will ever be simultaneously lined up) I am in a much much better place now than once i was.

Thank goddess.

However, the numbers are freaking me out. I look at the number in cold and stoney black-and-white, and my heart skips a beat, falls over and breaks its hip. I feel as though it is the chronologically numerical equivalent to falling asleep on the bus, and missing my stop. And it's an intercity bus, by the way. And now it will be a fucking nightmare to get home, stuck as I am in some godforsaken butt-fuck neighbourhood in the dusty dead-end part of the city.

I'm stretching the metaphor a little, but you get my drift, right?

The practical upshot of all this is that my vanity has part won through, but has been discombobulated by my latent and utterly daft sense of humour, resulting in my now claiming my age to be "re-XX". Absurd? Yes. Me? Completely.

But I don't care. I have reached the kind of inner acceptance where I am at peace with whatever decision I make -- which believe me, from one who holds an Olympic Gold medal in Procrastination (*not* procreation, thank you very much) -- is an achievement and a half.

I spent the day muchly in my birthday suit, with the one who has helped guide me towards said inner peace, also in his. It was beyond wonderful.

One request -- stay in my life over the next year? Please? It's been a great day, and I've loved every minute of it -- but none so much as rushing home to write out my feelings for your reading pleasure.

Mazal tov to me! XX years young... again.

😄

As always, comments, felicitations, mazal tovs and other congratulatory epithets are welcome -- nay, desired -- in the comments section.

Danke schoen.

Because I am a naturally blonde Pink Tabby, and I can.

During a recent password audit in a company, it was discovered that a brown-haired person was using the following password:

*MickieMinniePlutoHueyLouieDeweyDonaldGoofySacramento *

When asked why he was using such a long password, he said it was because he was told that a password had to be eight characters and include at least one capital.

*With grateful thanks to the EMRF, who not only provided me with the joke, but scraped it clean of all anti-blondiosity, because he knows and has proof that I am naturally blonde.*

I did find picshur like seshun with EMRF.

Hee hee hee

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It's been a year.

A wonderful, thrilling, exciting, exhilarating, amazing year.

Last week, the Big Bad Cat and I celebrated a year since the day we met and fell in love at first sight. Or, as he called it, "the Loverversary."

This week, it was the turn of my ass to relive the experience of being flogged red and shiny for the first time by a flogger-weilding feline.

Not forgetting my arms, which celebrated the anniversary of the first time they held him close to me, naked, content, post-orgasmic and purring.

And especially, a celebration in homage to the first time he straddled me across the bed, arms akimbo, secured to the bed posts with leather cuffs and canvas straps, and delighted in causing me to gush over and over again with sheer and ecstatic pleasure.

One whole year of my life, in which I have found myself completed in ways I did not even know I was fragmented.

I am truly blessed.

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

Removing my restraints, he settles himself into cat nap pose, and indicates that I should join him.

"Come here, my cuddle-slut."

"Ha! Talk about the cat calling the kitten pink. Look at you -- you're as much of a cuddle-slut as I am!"

"No, no, Pinky le Tab -- you are the cuddle-slut. *I* is a cuddle-aholic."

"No fair, why can't I be a cuddle-aholic?"

"You can, you just need to pass the ultimate test first."

"And that test would involve...?"

"The usual. Probing."

Ulp.

"Er, probing of where, exactly?"

He slides a finger into my ass, and holds it there, knowing how I am aroused by this.

"When all his (*significant finger-wiggle*) fingers join him. Then you can achieve the ranks of cuddle-aholic."

Eeeep!

I'll keep you posted.