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.