So I’ve got a nice day to devote to my own comfort and enjoyment. So far I managed to get wrapped up in an internet debate on the nature of hate, eat a pro-biotic yogurt shot and fail to write another chapter of the story I’m working on. Also, poptarts.
If I’m being good, I’ll get up, get dressed and do a few of the chores I really should focus on, like the laundry and some light exercise. Maybe even some of my overdue paperwork and some extra studying. Hmmm… Betting odds? 
You end up sounding like a broken record if you’re a female in the kink scene, online or off, and you complain every time you get hit on, but it’s been a banner week for the creeps to leave their dark moist spots under a rock and fill up my inbox. First there was the strange, broken English speaking gentleman who sent me a form from some random pro-dom’s websites as an introduction, basically a request sheet of all the kinks he wanted me to fill for him. Then a few friend requests from strange men with suggestive pictures, and then globetrotting Harold, who announced I was his idea of perfection and how he was a hopeless romantic, so could I overlook the fact that he is two decades older than me father, pretty please? He also wanted to mentor me to achieve my dreams, which puts him slightly beneath the guy who sent me an introduction saying he wished we could meet so I could fall in love with him.
Start a forum for submissive men, and the first question that’ll pop up will always be “How can I meet dominant women!?” Usually kindly souls will trot out the same advice: bathe, try not to leer and volunteer at events. These are blithely ignored, and over time about a quarter of the volume of new posts in the group will be repeats of that question. Permutations involve asking how they can turn a vanilla partner into a dominatrix and kvetching that women just don’t understand, if they only recognized that a man in chastity/forced drag/under a queening chair will do the demeaning domestic work and be the attentive new age softy they crave, there’d be a riding crop in every female hand in an instant. Posts will end with the lament that dominant women are just so rare.
The problem is not a scarcity, it’s that all these guys are fucking selfish. To be perfectly frank, the amount of male captivity scenes in harlequins, while still well below traditional bodice ripping femme sub storylines, is high enough to suggest a sizeable demographic of women open to the idea of creative, female-as-top sex. However, most of these women are not dominatrices. I use that word to mean that ideal domme that these people have in their head, whose sexual likes and dislikes click perfectly with the man’s needs and desires. Sometimes she’s a mommy figure, sometimes she’s a high heeled hellion, sometimes she’s a slightly sexually assertive woman wearing fetish wear, specifically into men in drag giving her head.Pretty much all the guys plaintively crying that there’s no domme for them have figured out their sexual kinks and are now looking for the special screw for their nut. And that’s the problem. These women don’t exist. You can’t call 1 – 800-DOM-SHOP and order a svelte redhead into cigars and fur or a heavyset Indian lesbian who mysteriously wants to convert ‘worthless men’ into her gender and smother them with pie. You can send out a million request lists, but of the small pool of cigar smokers who scowl at PETA protestors while flipping their auburn hair, even if you reach the thirty or so women who meet that description, non are probably attracted to you.
Some of them have figured out that women are often not sexually aroused by their idea of fun. Those guys go for the wallets, or the dust mop, wheedling that filling their fantasies should be worth having someone give you a small sum or do your dishes. Usually of course, they work the payment in as part of their fantasy. They give you ‘tribute’ or ’service’. And it’s a biiiiiiiiiig favour to you. A man dusting! Or exchanging a small amount of money for a sex act! Wow!
I’ve complained before about being treated like a service provider, but the reality is that dominant women are not only asked to fill a service giving role, but their supposed to act like the partner is giving them that vile-taste-in-the-mouth cliché “the gift of submission”. Basically, dom or sub, if the other party is meeting your fantasies they are doing you a favour. I know, I have incredibly selfish, highly specific desires too. However I DON’T introduce myself to strange men as “Hi! My name is Phalene, I like hurting men enough to draw blood, I get a thrill from adult versions of capture the flag, and I’d like it if you dressed in collared and cuffed shirts, with shiny black boots and maintained a low body fat percent and a moderate muscle mass. No beards except by special permission, okay?”
Of course expecting these idiots to perceive that human women are people is probably a bit of a stretch, so the advice to get into a relationship with mutual respect, tolerance and enjoyment of each other’s company and let the fetishes sort themselves out as compromises built on trust and sensibly positioned boundaries is going to fall as flat as a sheet of paper under a steamroller. Oh well.
I’m on a campaign for improved health again. Yesterday I went to the gym and used a machine for half an hour, and today I went swimming for a full hour. I got myself $10 goggles that work to keep most of the water out of my eyes, which means that the primary stumbling block to face-in-the-water swimming is gone. This has always been a big problem for me, meaning I never really learned to dive, I aspired to only ever do the side stroke, and I’d frustrate the hell out of my swim instructor be belly flopping when ordered to jump into the pool.
I’ve recognized that, after trying nose plugs and a lot of futzing about in the water for fun, what really bothers me is not water up the nose, but that horrid moment of blindness where the chlorine laden water completely removes my ability to see and I can’t rub my poor eyes. With goggles suction cup sealed on, I have no problem even experimenting with pushing my face under water in the direction of the bottom, and I imagine if I keep this up I’ll be diving, at least from the pool’s edge, by the end of the summer.
Right now, however, I’m sore all over and enjoying a cup of soup before bed. With luck my general ambition will carry on until tomorrow and I’ll get some exercise Sunday, too.
As much as most of my life seems to run like Hyperbole and a Half’’s daily life, it’s actually not so bad. as I observed, my morale and productivity actually increases with the addition of a daily job. That being said, I’m really not getting much in the way of sales lately, as I seem to have found the hidden treasure trove of angry customers- or maybe New York state is grumpy to everyone. I also got my first profanity laced rejection on something that was -almost- a sale, but bounced at verification.
Meanwhile one of our staff quit, as part of the steady attrition rate. I’m still trying valiantly to get better at sales, but I’m either missing something or my listings suck. actually, that’s another problem I’ve noticed, that about a quarter of the listings were prior calls reinserted into the big stack of paper where we get our contacts from. I’m guessing it was the call list of someone who quit and didn’t tick on the sheet. I’m a bit anxious I’ll never get good at sales, as I’m seeing this is a chance to learn how to do it.
Meanwhile Mothboy is trying to convince me to take an interview at a bookstore, for a pay cut and less regular hours. And everyone is responding to my choice in employment with ‘poor sweetie!’ like I took a job somewhere truly horrid. Odd, i like my job. It’s nice and steady work, for good pay.
On the way home from work I splurged and replaced my cake tins and loaf pans. Both had originally been dollar store, paper thin quality, and survived only a few different cooking attempts. The replacement, bought from a home goods and restaurant supply store around Jean Talon, are heavy dark non-stick, with that new ceramic coating that seems to be slowly edging out Teflon, now that everyone thinks Teflon causes cancer. I probably shouldn’t have spent the $50, but having tested the loaf pans they’re very good.
I wasn’t intending to actually buy that much, but with a 10% discount from the nice lady in the headscarf on further purchases and my general lust for home goods, I figured a day’s work was worth the enjoyment this stuff will bring. That’s something I find with working- every purchase becomes measured in labour hours. Liesure time suddenly becomes much more precious… and also more productive.
I also like how employment gives my a better handle on my money. Once upon a time I even had a GIC, but these days, since I’ve been mooching, money feels like a theoretical substance I don’t have to worry about and having a job adjusts this back to something reasonable.
I’m planning cupcake baking for tomorrow, since I promised I’d try to bring baked good to reward the meeting of quotas so I could go home early on Friday. That means getting up early tomorrow without argument so I can throw together something. I think it will involve strawberries…
Right now my current finacial priority is to stabilize cashflow so I can adjust things comfortably to get a clear picture of how much I need to ask for from the government/my father to complete my final year of university.
Meanwhile mothboy is looking into getting European citizenship while either of his first generation European grandparents are still alive. I think he’s going through a ‘return to my roots’ phase, fed by a month in Russia, but as well as that he is starting to drool over the Western European idea of bike paths. Me, I think being a trailing spouse in Europe could be fun, though I’m not holding my breath, since the British and Polish grandmothers are old and decrepit.
So I survived the update of Wordpress, and I’m enjoying the new dashboard. One of the new features is page-at-a-time spam deletion. Sadly there is no way to nerf your entire pending comments inbox, but this is a vast improvement over the many click system. Still, I have 163 pages of spam to delete, mostly in Russian.
Speaking of spam, a recent posting binge on fetlife drew out the usual wankers pleading with me to be their mistress. Many fleas were placed in ears. One chump was so obtuse that he simply bored on telling me how much he’d pay me (in boots and corsets) if I would please, please accept him as a slave, even after I told him that I had no interest in him. The less ethical side of me feels the urge to see how far I can push the horny idiot, including standing on his head and spitting nickles. Mothboy votes getting a PO box and making bank, but he also votes telling the guy to set himself on fire and leap off a building.
I’m also tempted to start a referral system, directing these sacks of libido at the actual professionals in exchange for a small percent finders fee. That’s one of the annoying things about this brand of sexuality- people automatically assume you’re a prostitute. I’m starting to feel a lot of sympathy for my pro-sisters, as sad and silly as the wicked wanda shtick is. After a while with guys bombarding you with requests, I wish I could demand tribute for answering my emails too.
Friday night, Mothboy IV, LittleN and I all went out for Japanese food at a place called Kazu and dancing at Le Saphir, a local montreal goth club. The food was excellent. Mothboy IV had sashimi, LittleN, having a sensitive pallet, went along with a teriyaki burger, and I, being interesting in trying cool things and having the grim, determination to punish myself for a period of picky eating during my early childhood, ordered the salmon head. It was very, very good. The meat was very tender, oily and full of flavour. I even ate the eye, though that part is severely over rated since the flavour is meh and the texture is rubbery. Also the lense is a hard little marble you can’t actually chew.
The skin was the best part, first seared on a flame grill and then roasted, so it was crisp, sauce laced and peeling right off the bones and meat. It’s also really filling for such a small food to bone ratio, so unlike my partner, Mothboy, I didn’t need to get a slice pizza afterwards. It’s also filled with fat, wich as I mentioned, gives it a great flavour but if you try one expect to get oil spatters and use a napkin.
I also discovered I liked sake. It has a nice, sweet but not overbearing rice taste and for the second time in my life I got slightly sozzled. So out of all the booze I’ve tried, sweet cocktails and beer aren’t to my taste, but I like Port, Madera and Sake. I’m undecided about wine yet, as it’s okay, but it doesn’t really contribute much to a meal, and that’s the only way to drink it without being sick.
Saphir (or “The Sapphire”, as us anglos call it) is a grungy club with two floors and dangerous steep staircases connecting them. LittleN is plotting the seduction of a woman we’ll call Peta-R, though in a vague silly sort of way, and her motivation for dragging us along was because Peta-R is decidedly of the goth persuasion. The club is well stocked with people of this sub culture, with most of the woman affecting a sort of dark-punk slut aesthetic, and the male garb all over the place. There’s a $5 cover, and with the weaving and bobbing of the crowd, the low volume of drinking and the lack of skuzzy men hitting on you, it’s decidedly a dance based place.
Unfortunately I’m not the best of shape, so I was only up for an hour or two of dancing. This involved me awkwardly trying to pole dance and shaking my behind, mostly ignored by a sea of people equally enjoying the music and shaking bits of their anatomy. I was somewhat limited by my choice of footwear, high heels probably being inappropriate for anything except for step dances that have a partner for support and no leaning, but I think I may take pole dancing classes at some point, not to be sexy, but because dance that involves gymnastics is fun and I’m much closer to being able to do a back bend than the splits, a prerequisite for many dances done on the ground.
I must say that my club experience has gotten much better since I took to wearing earplugs. They don’t look very pretty, but it’s the difference between getting a headache and shaving off another few decibels of my hearing, and being able to grab the prime dance spot off to the side of the speakers, where I can weave and bob without kicking someone.
This blog is oft neglected and has become loaded with spam to the extent that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to properly empty the comments section. As such, I’m working to redesign and restore this to something easier to work with.
Of course it’s just my luck that the password for my database has gone poof. If this blog completely vanishes, I decided to destroy everything and start over. ^_^
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