They THRIVE on NEGLECT

No no, not me-- Birds of Paradise. You know, those chunky blue-accented orange flowers that look like exotic bird heads? Well, that's what one of my substitute teachers in middle school said, sort of inscrutably and menacingly-- that "they thrive on neglect". But not me. And not my blog neither. This ol' stone tablet is withering like a Bird of Paradise after getting snuggled closely by a hummingbird from its lack of exercise.

Things have certainly been happening. Apparently, there's some kind of presidential race going on. Apparently, there's some kind of unfriendly altercation going on in Syria. I know this because I watched 25 minutes of the news today, whilst running on the treadmill in LA Fitness.

I'm so horny right now; I totally want to jerk my clit right now. But I feel I have a moral obligation to this blog of immorality: so I gotta direct all my tuckered out synapses to this little missive. For you. For you don't thrive on neglect. No, you love stimulation, excitation, variety, profundity, dinner specials for two (special dinners for you).

Ja, das ist wahr.

Alright, I'm pittering out, like milk from a congested spigot (ur mom).      

Weds//

Watched presidential debates with my 21 year old boy thang. I had noticed an interesting pattern developing: the young little thang hated to be 'on top' in the boudoir. For everybody else, that would probably connotate a preference. For me, it sufficed as a sign. I turned to him, my hand tucked under my chin, completely unnaturally,

"Do you think you may just have like 1-4% kink in you?"

"Well, sometimes I think about being used... and using..."

???????!!!!!!!!????????!!!!!!!!!????????!!!!!!!?????????!!!!!!!!!???????!!!!!!!!!???????!!!!!!!!!?????????!!

So much for being 100% vanilla, my sweet tea cake!

I took off my tights, straddled the young one while he sat upright on the couch, and used my removed tights to tie his hands above his head-- I should teach an 'improvised kink' class, right? Then I bunched up my shirt and used it as a makeshift blindfold. Then I fucked him. My young one doesn't buck or bray, he just concentrates and comes. And that was it-- so simple. A simple, I hope, beginning. Today I bought a feather tickler at the Pleasure Chest for phase II-- a miniature one at that, to ensure micro baby steps in the kink direction.

I wish I could say that everything in my life was progressing, but it's really not. It's hovering. Everybody oscillates gently, in abeyance, at a fixed point in my orbit, and I watch and chart. Like a young and buxom Galileo.

I talked everything over with Officer Cowboy, over tea and crops.

"Well, it sounds like you have everything under control. You just need a German to pee on you. Do you think you could tell the young one that?"

Ende //