This week’s Girl Talk Thursday prompt is – In a world without consequences, what kinky fantasy/thing would you do?
I’ve made no secret of my kinky tendencies on this blog. While it’s not all I write about or talk about, my thoughts and words and writing are splattered with my passion for bondage and power play.
In a world without consequences… I had to think about that for a bit. Define it. No laws, no judgment, no effect on my children, family life or relationships. Just me and my lover(s) in a world where I’ve made all the rules.
I’d build a house with a secret floor reserved for various pleasure chambers. I’d buy things like cages and flagellery cases. I’d soundproof the room and spend thousands of dollars at upscale, kinky sex shops. I’d reach out to bondage networks with my husband, searching for the perfect mate to share our bed when we feel like it. When he feels like it. I’d spend hours not making any decisions except to continue to give over my power to him. We’d test the boundaries of my self, I’d find and luxuriate in that wonderful sense of being that is sub-space. I’d walk naked through my house wearing nothing but cuffs and collar. I’d wiggle my butt and swing my hips knowing that in my choice to give up my choices, I gained a powerful weapon – my sexuality. We’d stop to eat, to drink, to sleep. We’d fuck. We’d make love. We’d lay lazily intertwined watching tv without bothering to clean up.
I’d spend a weekend playing at 24/7 BDSM. I’d convince my husband to have sex with me in public. I’d call up my sexiest girlfriends and tell them to come to my house, naked and slightly drunk, while my husband wields the video camera. I’d do everything, and anything, I wanted.
Then I’d snap out of my reverie, awoken by the baby giggling in her crib, and get up to start my day, because we all know a world without consequences doesn’t (shouldn’t, couldn’t) exist. .
I believe that getting your bitch on is part of the human condition. That’s why I just couldn’t pass up this Girl Talk Thursday topic – Pet Peeves.
Here’s a short (ahem) list of mine:
Breathing Very Loudly: If you didn’t just participate in a foot race, I should not be able to hear you breathing from across the room. Stop it. Stop it now. I would rather see you passed out from lack of oxygen than hear you breathe like that even one. more. time.
Related: Breathing Very Loudly WHILE Eating: This is even worse than just Breathing Very Loudly. Unless you just hunted and killed your meal after nearly starving to death (without stopping to cook it, because that would have given you a chance to catch your damn breath), you need to stop. So unless you are Breathing Very Loudly While Eating With Blood Dripping Down Your Chin, it’s unacceptable.
Almost Putting Things Away: If you got up off your fat, lazy ass long enough to pick up your glass and walk it over to the kitchen, don’t you dare put that next to the sink on the counter. You either put it in the dishwasher, or IN the sink. If the sink is so full of dirty dishes that you cannot fit it into the sink, then guess what? IT’S TIME TO DO SOME FUCKING DISHES ASSWIPE.
Related: Almost Putting Away: groceries, toys, toiletries, laundry, papers to be filed, etc etc. {yes, I am totally guilty of most of this. And it pisses me off when I do it, I don’t need you doing it too, ok buddy?}
Yawning Without Covering Your Mouth: This is not your annual physical. I am not your doctor, nor your dentist, nor your prey. Cover your damn mouth when you yawn, I can see all the way to your tonsils and it’s just indecent!
Arguing About “Over” or “Under” re: Toilet Paper: Who the FUCK cares? Seriously? Is your life SO MUNDANE?! {not YOU, of course. I can understand why YOU care.}
Nicknames When You Don’t Know Me: Don’t nickname me. You don’t know me. And if you continue to call me whatever stupid nickname you’ve chose, you never will. Possibly because you’ll spend the rest of your days in a coma.
Wiggling Your Toes Within My Line of Vision While I Watch TV: Yes I know this one is a little insane. But if you are sitting on the couch next to me, and your legs are crossed such that your foot is next to me, please do not wiggle your toes. It’s all I can see and it’s driving me fucking batty.
Breathing On Me: When you breathe on me it makes my soul shrivel up into a tiny, wrinkly, crushed version of it’s former self, and that allows me to do horrible things to you. Don’t breathe on me.
Related: Breathing On Me While I Am Trying To Sleep: I cannot sleep if you are facing me and if I can feel your breath on my face. It will keep me awake. Please turn the other way, I like to lay facing this side.
Exemptions: Breathing On Me While I Am Trying To Sleep If I Gave Birth To You: You are adorable. Breathe where ever you want. But stop kicking me, you little fucker, or I’ll shove you off the bed.
Not Calling When You Said You Would: I understand, life gets in the way. But if I expect you to call and then you don’t, my mind goes bad places and I start to panic and consider calling hospitals and patrolling the dark alleys to find your rotting corpse. So call me when you say you will, OKAY?! ::crazy eyes::
Catty Behavior: Everyone hates high school for a reason. It sucked, everyone acted immature and petty, and you weren’t as cool as you wanted to be. Yes, I understand that the blogosphere brings up all those emotions that you repressed after you got to college because you wanted to be more adult. I don’t care. Repress them again, go to therapy, whatever. Just stop sniping at each other, ok? We’re all human, we all fuck up, we all have our own issues. We get attitudes, we make rude comments… Do Unto Others, y’all. Just be nice.
Touching My Eyebrows: Don’t touch my eyebrows. It’s a thing with me. And don’t touch YOUR eyebrows while I’m looking. That’s a thing with me, too.
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Runners up:judging my list of pet peeves, reading over my shoulder, not saying please and thank you, leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the grocery store which makes me wonder whether I can take it or whether you’ve left it there for a reason, leaving your shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot so I hit it when it’s dark and scratch my car, leaving your shopping cart in the parking lot in an open space which means that a) I can’t park there or b) I can’t pull through YOU WHORE, obvious twitter ads filling up my twitter stream all the time don’t you ever tweet ANYTHING else?, following me on twitter and then not accepting my follow back request because you are protected, MySpace just as a general rule, people who want to purchase something from me on Craigslist as a general rule, overuse of hashtags, using IM/Twitter speak in a real conversation (i.e. SAYING “lol”)
Real quick, because I need to post this between trips to the bathroom. UGH.
Ring: I would totally marry Anymommy. She’s basically my hero, and if I could stalk her, I would. Marrying her would be better. I would so put a ring on that. She is warm and caring, and handles 4 kids with the greatest of ease, and she writes so. fucking. beautifully, and basically I just want to spend my life listening to her tell stories.
Fling: It’s a toss up between Jenny Grace and WhyMomDrinksRum. Can I have both? At the same time? They are gorgeous. Inside and out. And I know they’d be freaking animals in bed. And did I mention how fucking HAWT they are? DID I?!
Swing: So logistically this one doesn’t work, but if I had to kill someone off? It would be EvilEmuofDoom recieves that honor. My husband. I know, hard to swing with someone (myself?) to somehow kill him off and get him outta the picture, but I don’t care. I will find a way. Bastard gave me this godddamn stomach/instestinal bug. After I took care of him. See if I do that again.
I’d like to extend a warm welcome to Elizabeth of Boy Crazy [finding clarity in the chaos]. She had a heartbreak tale to tell for Girl Talk Thursday, but posting on her own blog wasn’t idea, so I’ve pulled up an extra virtual chair and let her be an author in this space for a day. Please keep all comments about this post right here, but make sure you visit her blog to see what else she has going on!
When Elizabeth wrote this, she was scribbling into a (possibly) tear-stained journal at 19 years old. She’s typed it up and published it here for our literary enjoyment. I’m so impressed with how eloquent she is!
Don’t forget to visit Girl Talk Thursday and check out the rest of the participants’ stories too!
~ xoxo MommyGeek
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(From the Vault) July 13, 1997
We sat on the bench at the end of the dock. It was around 1:30 in the morning, but we were wide-awake. We chatted for a while about the movie, using small talk to avoid the conversation that was lingering in the early morning air. I’m not sure if he sensed the urgency, but I felt so strongly that we needed to talk that a thick, heavy pressure squeezed my chest.
I asked him a question to lead us down the road we needed to go, but he sidestepped. Before he could take his tangent farther, I stepped in. The irritation and haste in my voice was more obvious than I intended, but I needed to make my point. He had succeeded at masking his recognition of our problem, but once I started talking he couldn’t hold back. He was on his feet in a matter of seconds; his face and body betraying his frustration before he even spoke.
I looked up at him, his features blurred through my tears. I wiped my eyes and nose with my sleeve, his borrowed shirt. I listened to him and watched his body against the midnight sky. The stars were sharp and bright behind his head, a backdrop for our act.
We argued back and forth, my captive tears finally set free. Two bodies, but one mind; we wrestled with the same fears and doubts. While I was relieved to know we felt the same, it stung to hear his doubts vocalized.
He sat down next to me, but too far away. I felt like we were actors in a play, that everything was over-dramatized. The waves washed over the pier, soaking my sandals. The water was much higher this year. I looked up. Thick clouds were creeping in and swallowing big swaths of the starry sky.
I moved closer to him, linking my arm through his and resting my head on his shoulder. I could feel his tension.
It isn’t supposed to be like this, he said. We should be returning from a movie, happy and in love, sitting on the dock seeing the same shooting stars. Everything should be picture perfect.
In awe of the irony, I sat silent, listening to the distant thunder rumbling its warning of the brewing storm. We sat for a few minutes, needing to speak but having nothing to say. Finally, he went inside, leaving our conflict unresolved.
I walked back towards the cottage, but I sat at the picnic table outside the door. In the dark, I cried with my head down on my folded arms on the tabletop. I cried for the confusion and for the understanding. I cried for the past I wanted back and for the future I feared. I cried for the present, upon which everything depended.
I don’t know how long I sat at that table. My eyes were heavy with sadness and sleep. Standing up, I looked at the sky, searching for at least one survivor star.
But they had all disappeared.
As I headed up the stone steps, I heard another rumble of thunder, but this time louder and closer. It was only beginning, and this could be one hell of a storm.
Things had been unraveling for weeks. Honestly, I should have known from the beginning that it wasn’t going to work. He was too diffident. Too closed off. Too mysterious. Too punk rock. Too sophisticated. Too immature. He was the very embodiment of enigma but to my young mind it was that very fact that made him so alluring.
Oh! How I wanted him.
It all started innocently enough. We were both involved heavily in the music department. He had a band, mostly punk rock. He sang a cover of the Captain Planet theme song that made you admit that you did know the words to that song, and scream them at the top of your lungs, hoping he’d glance your way. He wasn’t attractive in the traditional sense. It was really more about his attitude, his aura – he was sexy. I recognized that despite the fact that I hardly knew what sexy was at that time. It didn’t matter. I’ll admit it: I was a little bit obsessed.
I can’t quite remember exactly when we became exclusive. Did we kiss first, and commit later? Did he ask me out? I’m fuzzy on the timeline. I was a Junior in High School – 17 years old, old for my grade, I fancied myself more mature. I was as foolish and as vulnerable as any other young girl in love. We were dating during the school musical, I spent rehearsals sitting in his lap in the darkened auditorium, or clinging to his side while he entertained us with his guitar. I think it was Fiddler on the Roof that year. During the first few rehearsals, we flirted. He and his best friend both courted me, flirted with me, vying for my attention and it made my head spin. I felt so powerful, and seductive, and powerful.
I chose him because it felt like electricity every time he touched me. I chose him because his breath on my ear, as he leaned in to whisper witty cynicisms I could hardly comprehend, made my spine shiver and sent my insides churning.
He wrote me poems, taping them to the inside of my locker, folded in perfect little football triangles. I don’t have them anymore. My favorite was about a caged bird who wanted to be set free to sing, a caged bird who had the power to leave her cage but didn’t because she thought she could do it tomorrow, but tomorrow would never come. He gave me that poem and a necklace, a little silver key. It was simple – cheap, even. I treasured it like nothing else I’d ever owned.
I gave him my memory books – blank notebooks that I wrote in throughout the day, jotting down anything that poppped into my head, be it doodle or words or song lyrics. It was a peek into my self. I let him have them, I let him have me, my essence.
Ultimately though, he gave me nothing. He wrote me poems about what was wrong with me in beautiful verse. He gave me symbolic gifts that urged me to change. He gave me nothing of himself. To this day I know very little about him and his life, but he knew everything about me. It was too much, I couldn’t sustain it. I couldn’t give everything and receive nothing in return. I loved him, I needed to know more of him than his favorite foods or his vocal range.
I can’t remember which of us broke it off. I remember walking down the hallway in that god-forsaken high school and passing him a note. I remember the crushing weight of my sadness on my chest making it hard to breathe. I remember him saying Goodbye. I remember the way he smelled. I remember the way he walked.
I remember riding home on the bus in a fog. I got off at my stop. I started to walk down our little dead end road. I took 10, maybe 15 steps before I broke down. I clutched the necklace he had given me, my key to happiness, and it seemed to burn my hand. I dug my fingers into my palm with this little key curled inside my angry fist and I wanted to draw blood. I stayed there, kneeling on the ground, broken, for a long while.
Finally, I rose. I took the necklace off and threw it into the woods. I went home. I did homework. I talked to a few friends. I went to sleep. I got up and I got through the next day, and the next day, and the next.
It was hard. I was heartbroken. I thought I had known love, and it was ripped away from me. I thought I might never love again.
Thankfully, I was wrong.
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This post is part of Girl Talk Thursday, which is one of my favorite things ever Want to share a story about love or heartbreak? Join in on the fun! You don’t have to post on Thursday, just post before next Thursday! And don’t forget to visit the other participants!
The boobalicious Chibijeebs has some work woes that she doesn’t want broadcasted at her blog, so I offered up my (albeit a bit dusty from disuse of late) space to vent away. It’s all in good fun, and where good fun is involved, you know you’ll find Girl Talk Thursday. If you have a post that you’d like to write but can’t write in your own space, feel free to email me or leave a comment here or at Girl Talk Thursday. I’d be happy to feature it here, and I know the other gals at GTT would be thrilled to have you at their spaces, too. And don’t feel like it has to be TODAY TODAY TODAY because it’s Thursday! We’ll be reading, commenting and dishing out the girl time fun all week until our new topic next week. xoxo ~ MommyGeek
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The lovely MommyGeek (seriously: love her) has been kind enough to lend me some blog space because I’m paranoid. Well, and because the set-up at work combined with this particular issue would make me VERY easy to identify by anyone who knows me IRL, and I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of exposure. *ahem*
I willingly and openly admit upfront that my complaint really isn’t that big of a deal — all things considered, I have it pretty good. But this is fresh and I’m still worrying over it and it spilled over into my personal life, so yeah.
The office is half of a very large shop on one of the owner’s property; his house and a pool house (where Grandma lives) also occupy space here. (I guess before Rob built the shop, the office occupied space in Wade’s (owner #2) basement, so they’ve always played it close to the vest, so to speak.)
Before the end of the day Friday, Rob asked me if I would be interested in house sitting for them. I sat there in stunned silence because I wasn’t sure just what this entailed — they DO have three kids and a dog: was it just house sitting, or was it really babysitting? I recovered by asking when. He told me that they were all going to Hawaii in two weeks for a week, then Grandma would be returning with the kids while Mom and Dad stayed on for an extra week. He told me I could stay in the pool house if I felt more comfortable, and mentioned something about the hardest part being feeding the dog (even at the time I thought, if it’s just a matter of feeding the dog, I could do that before I went home/when I got here in the morning). I told him I’d have to talk to The Man-Thing, and he assured me that it was no big deal if I couldn’t — that they’d find someone else — but that he thought I might like the “commute.”
Instantly, I was filled with dread: I can’t really give you a logical explanation, but the idea of house sitting makes me anxious to the nth degree. I’d being staying in a strange house. Alone. In the dark. I’d be sleeping in a bed not my own, when I already have “issues” sleeping in my bed. What do I do with my clothes? Do I bring a week’s worth? Where do I put them? What do I do about dinner? Are they going to make sure the kitchen is stocked, or is that up to me? Who looks after MY home while I’m looking after yours? (Obviously this was before I met The Man-Thing and/or operating under the assumption that he’d be house sitting with me.) WHY doesn’t anyone think about THAT when they ask you to house sit for them?!? This is now the third time I’ve been asked to house sit by a boss/superior; I don’t know if they think I’m trustworthy or a push-over. Or a trustworthy push-over. Either way, it fills me with dread and I haven’t done it for anyone yet. Hell, even my parents’ house gets cursory every-other-day visits when I “house sit” for them, and I lived there up until three years ago!
As I was leaving, he excitedly asked me if I wanted a tour of “where [I'd] be staying.” I really didn’t want to, because I was all anxious and had pretty much already made up my mind to not do it, but I figured I’d humour him. I totally felt like I was trespassing, especially considering Grandma wasn’t home at the time. It was rather awful.
When I got home, I brought it up to The Man-Thing, all pshaw about it and stuff. He waited until I was finished before suggesting I do it: he’d be fine for a week on his own, and besides, with Rob being the younger of the two owners, he’d likely be the one to continue the company when Wade retires, so if I do him a favour now, it might pay off down the road. I looked at him, aghast. First, the mere thought that this particular incident might possibly affect my future employment sent me into paroxysms of horror; and secondly, thanks for implying that I don’t think you’d survive a week without me — could you TRY to hide your excitement of a week in your underwear eating pizza, plz?
It SO wasn’t how I’d expected the conversation to go. I expected we’d discuss either me going home after work and both of us coming back to “work” at the end of the day, or him coming out here to meet me at the end of the work day. I certainly didn’t expect the damn-near Alone Time Happy Dance, simultaneously leaving the neurotic one (me) staying in a strange place ALL BY HERSELF.
For some reason, I couldn’t even articulate what was going through my head, other than to blast him for wanting to get rid of me (which, naturally, he didn’t take very well) and voicing shock and dismay at the thought I might lose my job for saying no (in his “defence,” he’s currently involved in a course that is examining networking, and he figured this would just be one more way to make a “connection”). He bristled and got defensive; I clammed up and cried. Then? We didn’t speak.
FOR TWO HOURS. (Simply because we’re both horribly stubborn assholes who wait for the other one to “crack.”)
That was all resolved… blah, blah, blah. I then had to come in on Monday and tell Rob that it wasn’t “going to work for us,” making up some BS excuse about The Man-Thing starting another course that week, and… <enter petered-off babbling here> He told me it was no big deal, again repeating that they’d find someone else. *phew* Awkward and guilt-inducing (because I swear to Ceiling Cat I have the deadly combination of Catholic AND Jewish-mother guilt), but done…
…until Grandma came by with the mail Tuesday. I guess Rob hadn’t told her that I turned them down. She asked if I was going to be “staying over”; when I explained why I wasn’t, this look of panic overtook her face as she started worrying out loud about who they were going to get — ALL the (extended) family was going to be away/unavailable at that time. She started talking about how she KNEW she should have waited and gone when Rob et al got home.
Oh, fuck. Hi, Guilt! SO not nice to see you again. *sigh*
(I haven’t changed my mind, but I still feel ridiculously bad about it. Oh, and I didn’t tell The Man-Thing the latest with Grandma because, well, just because.)
I like to think that we all have them. Even those among us who seem infallible, important, or otherwise set “above the crowd.” Hell, even the man that the majority of America deemed worthy to act as our President (that’s Obama, for those of you who were living under a rock) has a vice – his BlackBerry. First President ever to have a personal smart phone.
I took a cue from Colleen today and asked my husband what my vices were. Either he doesn’t know me very well or doesn’t understand what a vice is, because first he said “your mother” (ok, he totally presented an argument in which that made sense, but that’s a whole ‘nother post that you don’t want to read I’m sure) and eating at 2am.
So, yeah. Food. If you want to know where I am around 1-3am every single morning, it’s either a) my kitchen, standing by the counter eating whatever I could get my grubby paws on and checking my tweets and email on my phone as it charges or b) sitting on the couch in the dark, eating ice cream out of the carton while checking email and tweets on my phone.
Do you see a pattern? Food and technology. Color me surprised. </ sarcasm>
I’ve stopped buying things like Oreo cookies and chocolate bars and *real* ice cream, not in an effort to be healthier but because I know that I have absolutely no self control and I’ll probably eat myself into my grave if I leave these things in the house. It’s expensive, and yes it’s not good for me but mostly? It’s damn expensive! The food, the new clothes I have to buy and eventually the expensive liposuction and gastro-intestinal surgery I’ll need to keep up my habit.
Let’s not even talk about technology. I’ll admit, we do spend more than the average American family on what my mother calls the newest gadgets or, if she’s in a pissy mood, a total waste of money that you could be saving for a mortgage downpayment. Chalk it up to our age, our generation, and our proclivity for all things technological – that’s how we choose to spend whatever we deem as “extra” money.
Honestly most of what we receive are gifts – at a gift-giving occasion we tell our families exactly what we want and they can coordinate the cash. One big gift. I’d rather that than a bunch of things I might not use So I got a shiny new phone for my last birthday, hubby got a Kindle for his last birthday, he’ll probably get a shiny new phone for Christmas, and maybe me too. Because yes, I got a new phone last year but it’s not the latest greatest as of Christmas and I’d rather have that than shoes, accessories, clothes, money, jewelery or anything else you can think up.
So.
Vices.
You can pencil me down for technology (which is probably somewhere under Greed) and food (hi, Gluttony!) and we’ll call it a day.
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Don’t forget to join in the fun! I know you’ve got a vice. Right? So either post about it and link it up, or go discuss in the comments at the Girl Talk Thursday blog!
I am not a crafty person. Have you ever been to Craftastrophe? If not give a click. Go ahead. See those things?
That’s what I’d end up with. But more poorly made, and with a warrant out for my arrest, because my probability of homicide goes up the more glitter, glue, felt, stickers and markers are around.
I made a “Good Job Sticker Chart” for Cupcake to use.
The Good Job Sticker Chart. Note my excited notes about prizes.
It took me a couple of hours. I am not lying. And yes, I know that the potty looks sort of like a sock. Cupcake tells me every day, ok? LAY OFF.
My mother and my sister are very crafty. My mother in particular. (Sidenote: they also love animals, and I’m not so fond. Switched at birth?) They will do any kind of craft be it paper mache or felt, clay or marker, anything.
The kids are lucky if I manage to get out fresh paper and some crayons from time to time.
I think the biggest issue is that I don’t like the mess. My house is by no means clean – but I just get a big ole’ icky feeling when I think of crafts and my carpets. Or my tables. Or my chairs. Or, anything frankly.
I was home alone today with Cupcake and Geeklet (usually I work full time) and I let her paint, but not before laying three trash bags on the floor, a towel on the bench and taping another trash bag to the table top with a stern admonition to not throw any paintbrushes. (The paint is washable. It comes right out. I don’t know what I’m worried about)
Are you crafty? Join in on our Girl Talk Thursday post and let us know what’s going on. I’m looking at you, Undomestic Diva. I heard about your craft room.
I’m posting at Girl Talk Thursday this week. Jump on over to see what glue I like to sniff.
I just know that you like certain scents. Pop over and discuss in the comments, or post something of your own and link it up! And as always, be sure to visit some of the other participants, that’s what girl talk is all about! Communicate. Comment. Karma.
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Comments are closed because I want you to comment over there Love ya!
Don’t forget to visit Girl Talk Thursday and link up your own Romance Novel post on Mr. Linky and check out all the other great posts! Play along!
I love romance novels. My mother still reads them diligently, and I definitely grab one from time to time. I learned a lot – a lot – about sex from these books, people. Forget about locking up your vibrator, you can pass that off as a toy, a massager or a bomb. Lock up your romance novels. I read my first one when I was about 11, I think. My mom didn’t know I had it, and it was racy. I mean, really racy. It also introduced me to the word of bondage, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. In fact, I’m terribly dissapointed because I can’t remember what book it was!
My favorite books to read are based in one of two historical times — either some point in history where there are courtesans, elaborate dresses, dashing men on horseback and possibly a dalliance in the servants quarters, or the old West.
I love me some cowboys.
My absolute favorite stories are the ones where she does not want to love the man – but he makes her. He woos her, he fucks her, she gives in to the pure sexual tension and then they find love – but only after some absolutely ridiculous sex because that is the whole point of these books, girls.
Ok. I need to find a Barnes & Noble and a dark room with a lock. Now.
I'm MommyGeek - married to DaddyGeek, with two soon-to-be-geek daughters, Cupcake (3.5 years old) and Geeklet (15 months). This blog chronicles the life and times of our GeekFam, in addition to serving as an outlet for our other geeky and techie loves. It's all part of the iGeneration profile. Oh, sorry - is our Geek showing?
In a world without consequences… I had to think about that for a bit. Define it. No laws, no judgment, no effect on my children, family life or relationships. Just me and my lover(s) in a world where I’ve made all the rules.
Want to share a story about love or heartbreak? Join in on the fun! You don’t have to post on Thursday, just post before next Thursday! And don’t forget to visit the other participants! 
Love ya! 
