I feel like the title pretty much says
it all, but I'll expound for my own rumination's sake. Nobody asked
me out on Valentine's Day. I waited and waited for my main
squeeze-of-the-moment-- lo and behold, an ex-client from the
dungeon-- to muster the guff to suggest something or other. But,
nothing. Hung up, but held at bay by excessive pride, I wanted to
work and spend the day fabricating meaning with the sick, sad souls
of the BDSM romantixx. My boss sent word about a noon-time session
with one of my regulars: I willed the work and there it was.
On the off-chance a sexy encounter
emerged from the ether, I made sure to dress for sex. Thigh-high lace
tights and one green velvet dress later, I was out the door and
cruising south down the metro towards Hollywood. My session went as
well as possible-- we watched Brazilian scat videos, he dressed up in
a slinky black dress, and I fucked him with my massive black
strap-on. Whilst soulfully pegging him, my dear slave looked lovingly
up at me: “You look so cute while you're fucking.” I've never
felt so emasculated.
Afterwards, I walked about town and
contemplated my solitary situation. Up to Whole Foods and down to
Starbucks, I thought about the meaning of initiative and monolithic
commercialism. After all, I am a Starbucks to the dear slaves who
curl up at my calves. A house of unshakeable bigness, security, and
consistent quality to the littleons looking for a vinyl teet and a
violent caress. My boss warned me that in order to get an inch with a
truly submissive man, I would have to use that oft-occluded power of
Female initiative. A force frequently regarded as the pathetic wile
of weathered cougars. No matter; I gave in. The truth was, I was at
the dungeon, and my slave lives but a few blocks away. In the name of
proximal bitches and the power to enact, I summoned him.
And come he did. While I was lounging
on a leather divan, drinking too much cheap wine and trying to read
Marquis De Sade, but only stringing together one sentence per minute.
I had willed work and now I had willed this amorous gallivant; I
finally understood the real ire of manhood, the nature of conquest
over the cagey and effervescent. His self-imposed restraint had been
driving me mad for weeks, keeping me up at night, making me touch
myself at the idea of overpowering and penetrating the dusk that
shrouded him. And then suddenly he was there, ready and willing to
unfurl.
In order to mitigate my fury at being
cornered into initiative (though I was deep in it and enjoying it), I
made plans to go out with some friends in the evening and leave only
a small window for condensed romance, or whatever one would call this
insanity. We chatted, and I chattered inanities as I tend to do when
I really feel electrified by another. Somehow we drifted to the
kitchen, still exchanging pure emptiness while positioned close,
traction ensured by the red, unimaginably sullied shag carpet under
our feet. I distinctly remembered thinking, as I reached over to
press play on the CD player, that the soft granite wall I erected
around out intimacy would not be broken tonight. But then I was on
the carpet, under a body much longer than mine, and surrounded by the
ghosts of all the souls I had beat mercilessly right where I lay.
It was simple, as sex tends to be. Even
all dressed up in latex and Japanese candle wax, intercourse is a
rather frank act. One minute we had never had sex, and, several
minutes later, we had. I could already feel all of the pent up
madness I had born for the last few weeks ebb and subside. The saga
of us isn't over, but my conquest had been fulfilled. Running an hour
late for my other evening plans, I cuddled on the quick and hustled
him out.
When I was driving towards Mel's Diner
in search of the cheesiest, meanest omelette I could find-- to
replenish my pallor from fucking my bitch-- I realized that I hadn't
witnessed Valentine's Day in LA for about 5 years. A strange palpable
passion hung muskily over the streets; drama haunted every corner. I
saw people crying, embracing more tightly than normal. Bitches were
snapping their fingers (presumably at the rude idea of love). At
Mel's a big, ugly Latino man was draped on a gaunt blonde: love was
in their eyes. In fact, for the first time ever, love was laying
heavy in Los Angeles.
I made it home at 3:30am, feeling
glutted and victorious. The omelette wasn't amazing, but it was mean. I couldn't say my bitch was securely in my pocket, but I could say
that I had wanted something and taken it-- roughly. When I opened my
computer, one of my Indian employers (I've been doing some content
writing, yee haw!) immediately g chatted me:
“happy vday dear”
“happy valentine's day to you, too”
“can you write about cheap car
insurance”
“sure thing. It's 4am here but i'll
get on it first thing tomorrow”
“yeah, u are up very early. do you
have an exam or something?”
“something like that”
“can we skype dear? I want to see ur
face. ur very prety mam. ”
And that's how my night ended, with $15
more in my Paypal account and a creepy transcontinental cyber chat
invitation. I politely declined the latter.
