What's A Little Ironing Among Friends

I must have She brain. My wonderful friend Crimson was here last week and all I write about is She. I suppose it's understandable. It's Day Sixteen of on my honor chastity. I'm lucky I remember my own name. I pulled out the CB-3000 last night, but the damn hinge ring is just so bloody uncomfortable I put it away like an old pair of jeans that used to fit, that you want to have fit, but the butt isn't doing what yer mind wants it to.

Anyway, I was supposed to pick Crimson up at LaGuardia but her plane was rain delayed and I didn't get to see her until Friday morning. She was staying in a nice East Side hotel that has a great rep, but she said was a bit of a dowager. She had invited me to have breakfast. She also offered to let me do her ironing for her. I mean what's a poor, out-of-town girl to do? Maidless, she was faced with the unimaginable prospect of doing her own ironing. Out of the question. She told me it had been years since she touched an ironing board, to say nothing of spray starch.

So, with She's permission, I agreed to help a girl out. I wrote about ironing in a post last year entitled "Kink In A Christmas Table Cloth". This was the A-side of the record. It was way fun. I ironed in my suit. Well, I did take my jacket off. But she was lying on the bed, her corset was hanging in the closet, and I got to iron a number of silky little nothings, including the pretty summer dress she wore the next day to our oh-so-organic, tofutti, Saturday morning brunch in the East Village.

My friend Crimson is so hot. She's now a strawberry blonde and despite a grueling work schedule, she was looking very Joan Holloway curvy. I love that we are friends. She's really been a key person in my feeling great about being a submissive man. I told her I had some pictures to show her. She sort of froze and asked if they were going to ruin her breakfast. I told her I hoped not. Well, she allowed, often the pictures guys showed her were not best viewed before eggs, or in her case some weird but healthy vegan concoction.

I told her the pictures were chronological. The second was more dramatic than the first and the first might rob the second of some its impact. I suggested she view the later picture first. She braced bravely. I handed her the framed photo. It was me at twenty five. She brightened, visibly relieved.

"Oh ... oh i definitely would have hit on you", she laughed.

I sit in an old, damask upolstered, Victorian chair; one leg crossed at the ankle over the knee of the other. I wear a pair of tight roll legged jeans; a loose river driver shirt, open at the neck; black high top Chucks; and a very goofy grin. In my lap is a gallon of ice cream. With hair tied back from my shoulders, a scruffy goatee, and spoon in hand; I attack my sweet quarry. A seventies hipster, alt-rockeresque vision of a dude in need of a bath.

We had a great time talking, laughing and conspiring. She might move here. I really hope she does. I love Crimson. I have a real scene friend.

As we hugged goodbye the next day, she said she'd always want to see me when she came to town. She told me I was delightful. Fancy that, a hot domme thinks I'm delightful. Well, she's delight-fuller.

Here's some Joan for ya Crimson, I miss ya girl.

She Sells Seashells

I never got her thing about shells. Then She posted some pictures of the shells we gathered. Exquisite. She knew all the names. Arranged them by size, and type, and style. Kaleidoscopic Crustacea.

I had watched her dive, gone for minutes at a time.
Then, to the surface she rose with her treasures.

She dragged them all back to her island paradise.

And made this.

This morning I sent her the old familiar tougue twister:

She sells seashells by the seashore.
The shells she sells are surely seashells.
So if she sells shells on the seashore,
I'm sure she sells seashore shells.

I inquired, "Hey, lady! Wanna sell me some shells??"

She replied simply, "My shells are not for sale."

From Tucson to Tucumcari

Etienne wrote a comment about personal relationships with prodommes on Wynter's blog in response to her post about her own relationship. He said:

So it can happen. You do have to really want it though, and be willing to see the Lady as more than just fantasy fulfillment. In the immortal words of Delbert McClinton:

"The upkeep on a woman like that will give an old poor boy the blues."

I don't mean financially, just that being a prodomme requires a certain degree of (being honest) self-centeredness that requires both good personal boundaries and true joy in service. We don't love them because they're low-maintenance, after all!

I thought that was just one of the most insightful observations I've ever read on a submissive man's committment to a dominant woman. He seemed to have such a well-grounded outlook about his own relationship. It was particularly on target for me since in my last post I was moaning about all the stuff that She had me doing for her. Whiney little subbie was all bent outta shape because he was hauling a few blouses down to Florida. Poor, put upon advo.

But Etienne really brought into sharp relief for me what seemed to be an essential truth about She and perhaps about dominant women in general. Enthrallingly or annoyingly they are in varying degrees kinda self-centered. They believe we are here to serve them. We crave that service. But day-in-day-out if the attitude that you deserve service is not just a role, but a personality trait, it does, as Etienne observed, require a dollop of self centeredness on the domme's part.

And upon reflection, I truly wouldn't have it any other way. So this week I surrendered to service. I made lists of all the stuff that had arrived from She's shop fest. Printed order forms and tracking numbers and lists. I updated her on progress. I went out to a local discount emporium, "where educated consumers are their best customers" and bought a fine, ballistic cloth, roller bag the size of a steamer trunk for a fraction of its retail price. No dumb shopper, I! And I packed it to the gills.

And as I haul this montrosity from Manhattan to Florida I'll cherish that she chose me to serve her.

After all, I didn't choose her because she's low maintenance. I'm still...willin'. As long as the damn thing fits into the rental Mustang.

Frank Zappa threw Lowell out of Mothers for these lyrics.
Okay, okay ... I'll pass on the weed, whites, and wine.
But a guy's gotta keep a few vices, no?

Mr. She

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Yeah I Wanna Touch

I was out last night with a woman. Young, smart, beautiful - an artist with a killer accent. We've been friends for three years or so. She did the art for my office, helped with design ideas, and has graced my fantasies with her wicked body and her slightly off-kilter smile. It was a beautiful night. My plan to take her to the Rise Bar at the Ritz Carlton on the tippy toe of Manhattan was foiled by its change in status to a private event venue. Undettered, right across the street was nice little Italian with outdoor seating overlooking Mistress Liberty and the massive body of water that has made New York, New York . An amazing sunset was ours.

My friend knows my wife. I had told her before our "date" that we were probably separating but when I began to talk about it she was just devastated. What a classic move on my part, no? Tell the alluring young artist you're the sensitive, well-meaning sex starved victim of a dying marriage and hope for mercy nookie. Sometimes I'm just a middle-aged cliche.

But my wife and I were somehow my friend's paradigm of perfection. Go figure. She became visibly upset when I began to tell her my version of the maritial meltdown. My wife on the other hand has snidely suggested that among my controversial women friends, this one was most likely to be a tie-me-up-tie-me-down kinda girl. Hmmmm...let's see.

So I described our precarious fisc as a contributing factor to our discord and confessed that sex had been a long term problem. I told my very hot Russian artiste and pretend paramour that although I had provided my wife, prior to the "I do" thing, with full knowledge and notice that I was as kinky as a very cheap garden hose, she and I had become enemy combatants over this issue. My friend laughed appreciately at my plagiarized, on-the-money descripition of my sexuality. Thanks, Elihu!

But as I gave a highly edited history of "client nineness" it became absolutely clear that the woman I've lusted after for sometime, written about in posts , and had all to myself for a gorgeous mid-summer sunset had no clue whatsoever about what makes me tick. Explaining bdsm to attractive, clueless women is a total downer. It's just complete social saltpeter. My horniness quotient, which was pretty high, went from a 9.5 to less than zero.

I guess I just needs me a domme.

But last night it was nice to own. I was remembering when I was single and would tell a girl I was into that I liked lingerie and maybe a little restraint? I would hope against hope for a positive response. These days, if a woman demonstrates no appreciation for the Scene, kink in general or isn't intensely curious about the whole deal my attitude is ... next. It's not that I won't be friends. I really like the Russian artist hottie. But I'm a submissive and I'm proud of it. I'm not looking for crumbs. I want me some cake, baby. With your permission only, of course!

Guess I'll just have to date kinky. Do I wanna touch?

And Yo, HMP, insteada that Joan song, how 'bout ... Joanie does Iggy - from me to you!

I like Joanie Blonde!!