I wear stilettos to bake

So, I got into the habit of wearing stilettos to wash dishes. But while my partner is back, he does the cooking and dishes, so the heels have migrated toward other tasks, such as baking and ironing. (All of my indoor activities that involve standing do tend toward the domestic.)

Yesterday evening, I needed to do some baking. And the baking made me think of the heels. And the heels suggested a costume change, into these skinny jeans (as well as lacy panties, by request).


And this is more or less what I wore to the low-key party/small event this past weekend. We are a pragmatic lot, so even though this was a dance related event, most folks ended up just wearing their winter boots. My heels attracted attention (as well as some surprise at my surefootedness), and not just because they added 4 inches/10 cm to my petite frame while everyone else was in flats.

Wearing them while baking last night, I once again noticed how they draw my attention to, and subtly change, my physicality. Ordinarily, I move almost silently: more than once have I passed someone on an otherwise deserted sidewalk and startled them because they didn’t know I was there until I was right beside them. The heels announce my walk through the quiet house with a blatant clip-clopping that makes me mildly but inevitably self-conscious.

Otherwise, I feel sensuous and feline in them. They discourage efficiency and promote gentle hedonism. A reach, a bend, a squat — practical movements, slowed down and savored, take on an additional aesthetic dimension. Mindfulness delivered in the shape of a shoe?

More hedonism followed later in the evening, not all of it gentle…

lacy panties 1 lacy panties 2

two months

It’s been two months since my partner returned. I had been trying to keep myself warmed up all that day, but by the time he got in at the scheduled late hour (past my bedtime), I was tired and bored with trying to maintain interest, while he had been up for 24 hours and was wiped out from travelling. We decided not to bother and just got ready for bed. But we had been cuddle-deprived and so we spooned for a little while, and that was enough to heat the blood. I was good and wet and he eased into me from behind for some easygoing “gee, it’s good to be back in the same house” sex before we crashed out.

His internal clock was 6 hours ahead of mine, so I expected him to be up early the next day despite the tiring day of travel. I tend towards fatigue and late mornings and guard my sleep jealously; it was a small sacrifice on the altar of love when I told him he could wake me up as early 6:00 to play around. But, as it turned out, I didn’t sleep soundly and by 6:00 I was already awake, after a fashion. We started out easy but ramped up quickly; we had been eyeing the tasty treats on the other side of the glass for months and now were confronted with an all-you-can-eat buffet. We couldn’t even wait for morning light before getting started. Thus began a 9-day run of daily sex.

During these last two months, we’ve had sex an average of over 5 times per week. I still smile and shake my head at the novelty, because for many years 5 would have been an annual average, not a weekly one, and might still have been a little high. (I tend to have a poor memory for these things and I simply don’t recall. My partner, on the other hand, has quite a good memory on the topic, and he made a deliberate effort not to count.)

Last summer when this was completely new, I was cautiously optimistic but I still worried that the change would prove to be temporary. After two months of maintaining a pretty consistent sexual appetite and attitude, I feel less cautious and more optimistic.

And, most importantly, we’re having fun and feeling connected. (And not just in the groinal area.)

I didn’t hate Fifty Shades of Grey

[Or, “How I managed to squeeze some value from a book that many consider dreck”]

For the record, I actively avoid romance and I don’t generally read erotica. When Fifty Shades of Grey (and the rest of the trilogy) got popular, I firmly expected to dislike it, maybe even hate it. But I try to keep an open mind, and while I didn’t make a point of seeking it out, I also didn’t make a point of avoiding it. I was firmly ambivalent.

My partner had been away for a while; I was thinking about sex more (and differently) than usual, but hadn’t yet had my epiphany. As fate would have it, that’s when I ran across a free copy of the book. (The only way I could have expended any less effort to acquire it was if someone physically put a copy in my hands.) I mentally shrugged and thought, “Eh, why not?” There’s a cultural moment happening here, so I decided to check in. Love it or hate it, I would at least have an informed opinion.

So… I neither love it nor hate it, which I think is entirely due to the expectations I had going in. What I expected was uninteresting wank material with poor writing and little or no plot. What I got was moderately hot wank material with mediocre writing and a passable plot. The result: I was pleasantly surprised.

If you subject the book to any rigorous criticism, yes, it falls apart at the seams. I read it the way I’d read a fashion magazine: flip through quickly, look for things that interest me, and skim lightly over the stuff that bugs me. No, it’s not literature, but it’s a nice enough way to kill time in a waiting room. It’s fantasy. It’s erotic romance, which in this case amounts to a romance playing dress-up in leather.

On the basis of where my head was at, I also got a few good things out of the book that I wasn’t expecting. Nothing earth-shattering and nothing I couldn’t have found elsewhere, but it happens that I found them here when I was receptive:

  1. You’re allowed to talk about sex. I’ve always had the idea that you shouldn’t talk about sex and thus I expected my partner to essentially read my mind, but I’ve since realized that this was the sexual shame speaking.
  2. Talking about sex and negotiating the details can actually be really hot. While my partner was away, I managed to get myself quite hot and bothered when we emailed ideas back and forth.
  3. It presented spanking, toys, bondage, etc. and encouraged me to actively consider whether I might like to try them — by using the book not as a manual but as a source of inspiration to start exploring.

Would I read it again? I’m not sure. On an intellectual level, I’ve learned enough about BDSM (which, if not for the book, I probably wouldn’t have looked into) to see many ways in which it gets BDSM wrong, and this, in addition to the mediocre writing and romance-ness of it, irritates me. On a practical level, my partner and I have one more two-month stint apart and this is the only book-length wank material I have in the house. Yes, I’m an opportunist.

Would I recommend it to others? No.

Unless you’re going to review it, in which case yes, you should absolutely read it.

can’t wait

He’s up and out the door early, and I immediately revert to my solo morning routine of thinking pleasant thoughts while I prepare to greet the day. I pick up where I left off yesterday evening, thinking on some new ideas for playtime. I clearly have some good material because it gets me nice and wet.

If he were home, I might try to ignore it ‌— he’s busy with a big project today, I’m still self-conscious about taking care of myself when he’s around but not involved, and surely I’m getting fucked enough already…

He fucked me last night. First he did my ass with an anal toy, and then with the toy still in place, put his cock in my cunt and reamed me out. And he fucked me the night before. I have every reason to expect that he’ll fuck me tonight and, if I’m not too tired after the party, tomorrow night too.

But I’m wet and warm now. I reach over, grab the vibe, and deliberate…

Then I heft a toy that was readied last night but not used — a weighty piece of surgical steel with a mirror shine and a graceful arc, icy to the touch. Press it to my wet lips – so cold! And then proceed to fuck myself with it.

I think I can make it to this evening now…

Dark Ages 10: Ed

That summer, I spent most of my time out of town. I was still going through guys at a rapid pace, but I think I was starting to get the hang of it…

I had been somewhat ambivalent about attending a family friend’s wedding, an 8-hour drive away. My young sister (age 7½) and I drove with another family friend, a grandfatherly type. I was looking forward to hanging out with the groom’s son — we had been friends as kids and I hadn’t seen him in ages — but he was off on some grand adventure and I didn’t know anyone else there and expected to be bored out of my skull.

The wedding took place at an acreage belonging to P, the bride’s sister. P was married to a younger man B, and B’s younger brother Ed was in attendance. Ed was tall and slim with long hair and looked like a musician — yum. There were a few other guys around my age, Ed’s friends or relatives I guess, I didn’t really notice them.

It was a gorgeous sunny day and, although the weather was a little cool for it, I was wearing my favorite dress — a sundress, deep red with tiny white polka dots, spaghetti straps, fitted at the waist and flaring to the hem, which ended somewhere around mid-thigh.

Somehow Ed and I started chatting, then wandered away from the house to chat some more. He mentioned that he and the guys had been trying to guess how old I was and that someone had figured me for 15. I was 19½.

I could feel the attraction. It turned out that Ed lived very close to my hotel, so we arranged to meet again that evening. My sister and I were sharing a room: I told her I was going out for a while. I met Ed in the lobby and we walked back to his place. I guess we talked for a while. Things got hot and heavy and we inevitably wound up in bed. But it ended not with a bang but a whimper: he couldn’t come so eventually we just stopped.

I found my own way back to the hotel, and by this point it was about 6:00 or so, and time to get up. I hadn’t slept at all, and tried to make up for it by snoozing on the long trip back, in the blazing sun, and my window was south-facing. Feh. I think the grandfatherly family friend was wise to the fact that I had been out all night, but at least he didn’t give me any grief about it.

Ed and I kept in touch, but the summer was just beginning…


After my last post, I got thinking that maybe I should try to replace my underwire bras since the cups are now too small.

Now, my usual style — for everything — is plain. It’s probably the HSP in me that makes me like clean lines, natural fibres, neutral tones. Glass, mirror, white, unbleached fabric, stainless steel, unstained wood. Clothes that allow a range of motion. My daily underwear is comfortable low-rise panties and a soft pullover bra, all in black cotton. But plain is surprisingly hard to find and thus can be quite frustrating to try to source, which is part of the reason why I hate shopping.

For me, underwire bras are not for daily wear — they’re mostly for playtime. And for playtime, I don’t want plain, I want sexy. I can live with a some discomfort. Stores are full of uncomfortable sexy things, and shopping is a lot more fun when uncomfortable sexy things are what I want. So, with much more optimism than usual, I trundled off to the mall.

Hallelujah, I actually found a bra that fits! It happened to be a fairly basic style after all: one-piece foam cups with what is considered minimal padding, though still more “help” than I’m used to. On the numbers (under-bust not quite 30”, bust 34”), I should be a 30D(!). I bought a 32C. (Only specialty stores carry a 30, but somehow this 32 still fits properly (i.e. worn on the loosest hook when it’s new), and the cup of a 30D is comparable to the cup of a 32C.) I guess I’m not as flat as I thought! And then with that bit of padding… I even have cleavage.

new bra

Then there were the panties: tables heaped to overflowing with a cornucopia of styles, all involving the tiniest scraps of fabric. There was a deal if you bought a certain number, and I was told I could mix and match among tables, so I did. But it turned out that there were actually two separate deals with different conditions. Rather than choose one or the other, I did both, so I’m now the proud owner of 8 pairs (7 styles) of sporty, stringy, and lacy underthings.

When I got home, I immediately modeled the haul for my partner. Let’s just say he approves…

This pile of lingerie, as well as a new anal toy, mostly demolished the Visa gift card that my mother-in-law gave me for Christmas. It’s a good thing that she probably won’t ask what I bought.