Category: Metaphysical/Thoughtful

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Connections

I have a tendency towards messiness. I keep most of it contained, but my kitchen had finally gotten far enough out of hand to warrant a quick tidy and some dish washing. As I bustled around my miniature kitchen area, I happened upon a shot glass. Those of you who have met me know I am quite short. At five two, I can barely see onto the second shelf in my kitchen, much less the next two. It was as I felt around, checking for lost items that I found this novelty glass. It’s the sort of thing you would find in an airport in Chicago. It tilts to one side as if a strong breakage had happened by during its creation and the slogan reads ‘Chicago blew me away!’ I don’t recognize it. I’ve never been to Chicago though my aunt used to live there and I don’t remember ever receiving this as a gift. I can’t imagine it belonging to me, so I must assume it was left by the previous owner.

That got me thinking about the connections we have to the passers by in our lives. Whoever lived here before me I will never know. It was probably a single person since they restrict these studios to one tenant. I like to imagine she was like me: a reader, a bit of a homebody, interested in traveling and perhaps better traveled than myself, affectionate, and hopefully happy. Maybe she has family in Chicago and she left Seattle to reunite with them. Maybe she fell in love and moved to be by his side. Maybe she, too, rented this apartment specifically to entertain her gentleman callers. My conjectures mean nothing in the scheme of things, but dwelling on this gossamer connection reminds me that we are also connected to dozens of other people each day. The driver who cut me off also has a life and a family, a job and a home. The woman standing in the aisle at the grocery store is considering how best to feed her children and conserve her finances at the same time. The cashier at the drug store likely has no idea who I am but still flashes me a big smile and makes sure I had a good experience. All these people change my life in tiny ways, a little at a time. That driver has his counterpoint in the conscientious motorist waving thank you and both will change how I feel about myself, my city, and eventually the people that matter to me.

Caring for people who I am invested in is easy. My partner earns my trust and love very day. My girlfriends show me how much they care and invite my emotional investment regularly. My gentleman callers invest trust and time in my feelings of security physically, socially, and financially. Investing in these bright flames is easy and pleasant for me. It is the momentary interactions between me and people I have no reason to invest in that I consider now.

I often find myself negatively effected by those small brushes of humanity. They are in the way of me completing a task or returning home and that irritates me. Because of this other spark of life, mine is inconvenienced. It is hard to not only remember that these sparks are much like myself but to keep that in the forefront of my mind as I live day to day. The tiny connections we make every day are moments of opportunity to empathize or to resent and we can blame no one but ourselves for which we choose.

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The Evolution of an Atheist Sex Kitten

My parents and I don’t share much anymore. I used to share my life with them, my religious beliefs, and my genetic material. Looking back, I’ve always been a nonbeliever. I once confess edit pm y mother, crying, that intellectually I knew there was a God but I simply couldn’t feel that it was true. “I believe it in my head, but not in my heart.” Of course I believed in the god of Abraham, Moses, and David. I went to church every week and sang songs and heard stories. As a toddler I attended bible class every morning where they pressed the love of Christ upon us. In middle school I watched videos of ‘scientists’ shushing or explaining away evidence for an old earth, evolution, and inconsistencies in the bible. In college we were taught but not encouraged to believe the mainstream explanations for how the world has become so. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the science classes or the philosophy that led me astray. The history of our sect, the various interpretations of the bible, the inaccuracies and poor behavior of those interpreting it are what led me astray. When I learned that the bible is known to have been written by authors it is not attributed to (psalms not by David, Daniel not actually at the time of his life but long after his death, etc) I lost what little faith I had left. The layers of intellectual armor I had been give as a child fell away and I realized that if I didn’t feel it and I no long knew it, why should I believe it. And so, as the school board erected a quarter million dollar statue of Jesus and his disciples, I lost faith in the myth I had always held.

Then life got fun. My friend group shifted to include several lgbt members, a few struggling theists, avowed and hilarious atheists, and most importantly cute boys. I finally lived on my own and was able to host and provide alcohol for what we uptight religious kids considered quite the party. A total rager. We drank, like, a whole bottle of liquor! Between the five of us, haha. I decided that I enjoyed fun and I wasn’t going to let my parents god get in the way. Plus I had boys to entertain me.

I’ve always had a weakness for the stronger sex. For a year I enjoyed a fulfilling and fun sexual relationship with two beautiful young men who were exploring their first sexual experience. I was thrilled to be their chaperone on this journey. There was a great deal of fondness between all three of us. I rarely spent a night alone with the two of them around. One night I and the older one fell asleep under a blanket in the backyard. We woke long enough to make love and then fall asleep again, cuddled close to stay warm. Three or four times that night we woke and then slept again, each time coming together under the stars, just because we could. Another time, the younger and more adventurous one met me in the basement of the science building. I had some keys, no one was around, and in the single stall bathroom with one foot on the counter we fucked furiously and as quietly as we could, excited by our daring. On another occasion we bumped into each other late at night. He was coming from the gym after a few hours on the climbing wall and what started as an innocent hug turned saucy as soon as I smelled the fresh, salty sweat on his skin. Oh, those were the days: when I was the knowledgable one, experienced and in charge.

I always have felt good about sex. I was extremely proud of my first encounter between my lips and his cock. Im not proud of the circumstances surrounding it, but be that as it may, I was oblivious to any and all slut shaming that came of that and many of my other behaviors at that age. Fortunately I only had one young man all the way through high school or I might be in a very different place right now. Sex education was severely lacking in my sleepy small tow and though my mother helped dispel some myths, it didn’t occur to me to ask some of the more important questions. At least I kept out of the kind of trouble that follows you for the rest of your life long enough to make it a point of mitigating the danger. The fist time I had sex… Oh I remember it well. Years of horseback riding, running, falling, and some more recent sexual activity meant that I felt no pain. It was all pleasure. I had no second thoughts until after when we pledged never to do it again. But of course we did. All the time. Everywhere. Usually in the back of his pickup or in ibis bedroom, but also in the woods, at the drive in theater, in the back seat of my car several times in different locations, in the school bathroom after hours… just, anywhere we could find. Childish, fumbling, over-too-soon sex, but so much of it. By the time college rolled around I was a pro. Or so I thought. I still had much to learn but enthusiasm and openness makes up for lack of technique in many ways. It also helped that my partners were all equally oblivious.

And so, I share little, if anything with my parents anymore. I love to hem, of course, and find them intelligent and able to hold great conversation, but without a god to share and withholding a large part of my life from them, I find that memories hold us together. The genetic material thing is a story for another time. Feel free to ask next time you come over 😉

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Welcome back, Seattle Summer!

I see you’ve decided to join us finally. We welcome your sunny caresses, your invitation to dive into your cool waters, and your willingness to host us foolish children. This morning has been spent sitting indoors, listening to the twitter of birds, the shhhh of cars passing by, the swoosh of the breeze and the ring of voices out enjoying your bounty. Soon this will change. I have new dresses begging to be worn all over town. I can almost feel the swish swish swish of loose fabric around my legs, the breeze lifting my skirt just a little, the sunshine warming my shoulders and my hair.

You beg me to rent a little canoe and a paddle and join you in the lake. I’m at your level, I can see the shores rising away from me as if I’m held in your arms. When I find my little backwater creek and am separated from everyone else by a screen of reeds and branches we are alone. I can see you smiling with me, pleased that I enjoy the party you host just for me. I share my noonday snack with the ducks that follow me, trusting that there will be food and not harm from their fellow creature.

I love you, Seattle. I hate you, sometimes, when the wind blows and the rain finds its way under my clothes and into my shoes. I want to stay inside and avoid you for days at a time when you behave that way but now, with your gentle caresses and your pleasant smile, I love you and I like you.

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Like Ripples in a Pond

Our actions influence more than we think. Like ripples in a pond what we do and say around people we may not care for can have a devastating effect on people we love. I’ve always been both oblivious and indifferent to most people’s opinions which means it’s hard for me to understand that while I may not care, others do. This came home in a big way a few weeks ago

I’ve been exchanging letters with an old college friend of mine. He’s the epitome of nerd academically, socially, and culturally. He’s one of the most loyal people I’ve ever known and counting him as a friend is a privelege. Our friendship was always platonic. I asked him once, just to be sure, “You aren’t interested in me, right?” because I’m all too used to having my male friends either become sexual partners or drift away because I’m not sexually interested in them. Over the course of our letters, I asked him how much, exactly, he wanted to know about certain parts of my life. I know he’s very conservative and also he has me compartmentalized into a friend box; he’s not the kind of person who can easily cope with the madonna/whore duality and so he chose not to indulge his curiosity. As part of his rationale he told me a story from school, when he was hanging out with some of the guys. One of those guys was kind of cute and I had a one-time fling with him. No farther than a little french lesson, but I was proud of myself, as usual, because I rock at it and he was blown away. Of course, it didn’t even occur to me that he might tell other people and have a negative opinion about me because of it. I’m used to sex positive people who enjoy getting together and pleasuring each other without attaching labels. Anyway, I came up in conversation and was immediately labeled a slut. Not that I’d deny it, of course, but that’s pretty ungrateful talk for the other half of the slut-party. Stuff like that might surprise me but I’m nearly immune to things like that. To me, it’s water off a duck’s back. This young man’s opinion wasn’t important to me so I don’t really care how he feels about our encounter. However, my good friend, loyal, kind, rich in acuity and affection, was horrified. Apparently he vehemently denied the label on my behalf and was a little torn up over it. I read that and was furious on his behalf. Fuck the attitudes that tell my friends that their affection and trust is misplaced. Screw the guys who are perfectly willing to kiss and tell, and not in a good way. The least you could do is be fucking decent about it. Throw it in my face all you want but leave my friends out of it.

Early last year I began a relationship. We work together and kept it quiet for a while but not long after it became public, several friends from the management team privately warned him that I’m loose and of low morals and the I have a reputation. I had fooled around with one other coworker once and it was mostly common knowledge that I was an exotic dancer at a club on occasion. That was apparently cause enough to warn this nice, upstanding boy to stay away from this skank. Fuck that. You think that you’re protecting your friend from what? A woman who isn’t ashamed of herself? Someone who finds sexuality rewarding to herself and her friends? A girl that chooses sexual partners that other people don’t like? Say it to my face if you’re going to express that opinion and leave my friends out of it.

When I moved in with my partner and his two housemates, one of them objected on the grounds that I “might bring the wrong kind of people around” as if my sexuality breeds junkies and crime lords. We had even met several times and those of you who have met me know I don’t fit the stereotypes that involve drugs and sleazy managers and whatnot. It didn’t take long for him to realize that wasn’t going to happen and now we’re friends. Same thing with my friends at work: the longevity and seriousness of my relationship has given me legitimacy and silenced whatever talk was going around.

I’ve have always been very sexual and proud of my sexual prowess. I remember my first kiss, the first time I went down on a guy, my first (and only) simultaneous climax, my first experiment with bondage, my first client, and my greatest lover. I love it all. I talk about it, I think about it, I share it. I once slept with an incredibly sweet young man simply because he’d never had sex before and I wanted him to know how great it could be and to learn how great he could be also. I am that girl. I am unashamedly a slut and I don’t care who knows.

I didn’t care. I do now. Negative opinions of me reflect on the others in my life. I’ve always been so sure of myself that it didn’t occur to me that others’ might not be. My friends could be vulnerable to anger, sadness, or shame because of my behavior and I won’t even know unless they tell me. I can do something that to me is fun and exciting with no shame and bring shame to people who have no involvement. I hate that. I fucking hate that. The social climate that tells these beautiful people that there is something wrong with them for putting their trust and love in me. The conviction that a woman who has slept with more than some arbitrary number of men, or who isn’t ashamed to admit it, is untrustworthy is despicable and angering.

I have since attempted to limit who knows what. Not really for legal reasons and not for myself but for my friends and family who would be subject to public shame for my actions. Like ripples in a pond I spread across the circle of friends, loving them and doing my best not to make them dirty, as society often sees me.

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Spring is here!!!

And has been for almost a week now. I’m feeling it. I can see new shoots on our house plants and every time I go to the hardware store I remind myself to pick up those little starter planters so we can start seedlings. We have enormous south facing windows and a sliding door leading to the balcony. I’ve started taking after cats and curling up in pools of warm sunshine, relaxing and blissing out. My biggest regret is that I work at night and sleep during the day. I miss out on that impulse to go outside and explore.

Here is my average Monday: First of all, it’s actually a Saturday. My work week begins at ten on Saturday night, one of the worst times to be in the service industry. I worked the night of the Superbowl and had to ride the bus -TO WORK- with a bunch of fans. I’m happy for them, I even went out to watch the game with friends, but going to work that night was not what I want to do on a normal Saturday night, much less a loud, obnoxious, drunk one. That was the worst but Saturday nights are often like that: drunk people, too late for an express bus, and a whole long night full of nothing, if I’m lucky. I didn’t mind it for the longest time. I have time to write, to read, and I got a lot of homework done while I was in school. Plus it was exciting to sleuth through the day’s transactions to find mistakes and solutions. After a while, though, it gets tiring. I could be sleeping right now and in the morning I could have a leisurely breakfast, then go to my space and see one of my lovely friends, then maybe go out for lunch and listen to the birds sing. Instead, I drop into bed as soon as I get home and sleep until my partner gets home. We have dinner and a few moments, then I leave again. Three days of that, thank goodness it’s only three days, then I get Tuesday.

Tuesday is always interesting because I never know if I’m going to be exhausted or excited. I try to stay up most of the day so I’ll be able to sleep that night. Depending on the feel of the day I might get some errands done or I might just go home and sleep a little, then get up and putter until he gets home, then have a few drinks and try to sleep. Tuesdays are often either crazy or blissful, mostly since it’s the first day that I get to fall asleep at night in my own bed and wake up with normal people. If I slept the day before much I often end up waking up before the sunrise which is always beautiful. There’s something about early mornings like that that, even though I’m not a morning person, can soothe a soul.

Now that spring is here and change is coming, I’ll be switching back to being a creature of the day. A woman who sleeps at night and lives during the day. It also means that my Sundays and Mondays will come available for me to visit with my gentlemen. As always, reflected on my calendar is an up-to-the minute look at dates and times I anticipate being available. I’m so excited for spring!

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A personal history of sexuality

My most recent review of the Robert Heinlein novel ‘Friday’ has, as good fiction should, raised interesting thoughts that I feel are pertinent to my life, my professional activities, and my audience. I find it becoming appropriate to describe as best I can my sexuality and why I like what I like.

I am, above all, a pleaser. I love to watch and specially hear people affirm me and my abilities. You want to make me happy? Don’t try to do anything to me, simply relax and respond. I want to hear you grunt when I hit a sore spot and tell me that it feels good. I want to hear you breath hard and watch your muscles tense as you edge closer to climax. I want to see you smile at me when I come into view around the corner with a welcoming embrace. I want you to relax and find yourself drawn to come back time and time again because you enjoy what I do to you.

That’s a very important point. What makes me happiest is to DO TO YOU, not be done to.

It took me a good three or four years to overcome the social conditioning that has me quiet as a mouse when it comes to talking about sex with someone I’m having it with. I can talk the proverbial ear off people who aren’t my partner, but I learned early on that the male ego is extremely fragile and even the hint of dissatisfaction is grounds for hours of pouting and guilt tripping. Of course I now know that adults don’t pull that kind of crap but two years, my two first years, no less, of conditioning is not easy to get over. I have since stumbled my way into a relationship where being selfish was not only acceptable but actively encouraged. I found my partner urging me to please myself and what finally allowed me to give over was him letting me know in no uncertain terms that it was hot as hell and he hoped I’d do it as often as I wanted. The fact that getting off got him off allowed me to justify my selfishness and finally I started consistently climaxing, though still not every time. That dynamic is something I reserve for him. It is why I choose not to offer mutual touch or full service. He has earned that by his patient selflessness which he exercised long before we went to bed together. I cannot exercise that selfishness with just anyone.

It helps that we’ve had the time to crack the code, as it were. I would describe my equipment as a massive combination lock with a dozen, constantly changing stops on the dial. It also has a self destruct feature where trying too many times basically breaks it and I have to wait until next time to try again. Of course I still love sex for its own sake and always have, but having other people try to fumble through it when even I don’t know how it works is not ideal. My perfect sexscapade is orally pleasuring each other for exorbitant amounts of time, then getting in some vogorous but breif action, then cuddling.

I realize that many of you are also givers and that you get off on getting your partners off. I appreciate and identify with that SO much. I’ve been on the receiving end of several of your massages, gifts, and attention which makes me feel good. You know why it makes me feel good? Because it makes you happy. It doesn’t matter what your gifts or praise are, as long as they are genuine (which is why ‘perfect’ is a word I don’t much like), I will like them. It’s like a big circle of happiness that runs round and round, making both of us brighter with each circuit. It doesn’t matter whether your massage is light or firm, I feel physically good, so you feel good, so I feel good, and the loop returns. I’m not sure I’m explaining it very well but those of you who are like me will understand. Just making someone else happy fills up your love cup, you don’t need anyone to do it back to get the effect.

I’m pointing this out because I have had people ask me what I want to be done to me to make me happy. My answer is and always will be: nothing. Leave me in control of the situation so I am mentally pleased and satisfied. Let me know that you are pleased with what I do for you. Relax. Breathe. Feel. That is my reward and why I love what I do.

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Happiness

I saw most of a documentary tonight on KCTS, Seattle’s local public television. It was simply titled “Happy” and covered several cultures in search of what makes us happy. Their conclusion was familiar to me.

I have always thought we were social creatures, our lives depending on each other for survival. There is a whole segment of evolutionary theory concerned with group fitness and altruism that takes for granted that we would never have survived into maturity without each other. The documentary concluded that not only is social interaction necessary for survival, it is also responsible for our happiness and longevity.

Okinawa, Japan has the highest centenarians per capita in the world. The more industrialized parts of japan are suffering from a wave of deaths at the workplace due to sleep deprivation and stress. The difference is the focus on community and social connectivity versus the focus on economic success. The residents of Okinawa farm for part of the day, then go to town where they share tea, participate in cultural activities, and care for each other. The residents of Tokyo work long hours and are constantly bombared with the need for economic success at the cost of families and even lives.

In Okinawa there was a gaggle of old ladies sitting together being interviewed. One mentioned that her husband was lost in the war and she has no other family, but she never feels alone because her neighbors are always there to care for her and interact with her. Not one of the old people shown were walking with canes or feeble in any way. It was inspiring to watch and vindicating for me, who has always been so hell bent on social interaction, that even statistical analysis upheld the hypothesis that we get our happiness not from how much money we earn but from how much love we receive.

It seems intuitive, does it not? And yet here we find ourselves in an industry that trades economic success for social interaction. The providers of Seattle, and specifically of TRB, pride themselves not on how perfectly their hair is curled or how red their lips are, but on how well we make our callers feel when they are with us. We are both naturally skilled and self taught to give much needed care and attention. Many reviews we see on TRB focus primarily on how genuine and caring the providers are and keep the physical interaction on the down-low. More indicative than reviews are the little quips and back-and-forths between providers and the men who see them. There is more than a quick lay going on and it’s no suprise it’s a huge industry despite its legal status.

I, for one, consider myself priveleged to have made my way, finally, to Seattle and to this line of work. I’ve talked about how I love it, how the giving of pleasure makes me deeply happy both in the moment and when I look back on it. This documentary resonated with me. It validated my chosen work. It made me excited about my upcoming week, full of the joy of helping my friends realize the power of a moment of relaxation and of adoration. I reccomend watching it as a reminder to take time for yourself. If you don’t have time to watch it, see my previous reccomendation.

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Better With Time

The question of age come up on occasion. How young is too young? How old is too old? It surprises me that it is a question because I simply assumed that in this industry, age and ability matter very little. Attitude and chemistry are critical and for a truly skilled companion chemistry is no mystery. We learned long ago to exaggerate the right things, hold ourselves in flattering poses, cultivate an interest in each and every person we see so our chemistry is both genuine and assured.

I once said to someone asking that were I to restrict my clients to those under a certain age, I would lose the cream of the crop. As we age, we gather experiences like shadows that follow us, like clothes that distinguish us, and in the lines on our hands and faces. Our character is etched into our appearance and as the vigor of youth fades the steady strength of maturity emerges. The confidence I’ve seen in many of the older gents of Seattle is attractive and their attention is flattering. It draws out a brash sensuality, much like a receptive audience brings out the spirit of a troup of actors.  The doe-eyed nervousness of youth is equally flattering, but evokes in me a more protective, sisterly feeling that results in a more subdued, careful encounter.

As we age we learn what we like and what works for us, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. We tolerate less foolishness and immaturity and seek out knowledge, meaningful connections, and people who we believe will not only make us feel good, but draw us out and make us batter people. Relationships are fewer but deeper and it takes a remarkable person to draw us into the time and energy required to establish new ties. All of these things make time with the mature gents of Seattle rewarding and flattering. We both appreciate what we do for one another and we both appreciate the reality of the relationship. It is why many of you find yourselves drawn towards Tanuki, Sarah Nicole, Jillian Roberts, Joyfull, and the many other mature providers in Seattle: we all become better with time 🙂

So if you’ve been rejected before because of your age, your race, disabilities, dearth or excess of facial hair, attatchment to your rubber ducky, or any other superficial foolishness, rest assured that should you meet me as an equal, with respect, you will not leave disappointed.

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A most wonderful experiment!

As should be obvious, I have recently amended my Modus Operandi to include a mostly unidirectional sensual offering. It has been a few weeks of testing the waters both of the new incall and of the new techniques and, aside from a tiny glitch with the buzzer, it’s been delightful! I don’t even know where to start. I’ve been busy, between buying new sheets and more candles, shopping for new lengerie, and spending time in the company of some truly delightful gents.

My first was at least with someone I knew already. I spent more time giggling with nerves than being sexy, but he was thoughtful and gracious and experienced and it went much like a first encounter with an older lover, one who gives suggestions and advice to make me into a better lover myself. After a few more experiences, I found more confidence. I began to experiment with my craft, with the timing, the order of events, speaking or remaining silent. Of course I have the gentle encouragement of my gentleman friends to thank for that confidence, and for the chance to start to find a groove. I can’t say that I’ve become an expert, yet, but the learning curve is incredible. The transition from one movement to the next is like a symphony of touch that I’m working out, playing, conducting, and composing all at once.

I was not prepared for how silly and awkward I would feel that first time. The first time I made love to one of my friends it was fairly natural and straightforward. I’d made love before, it came naturally. This was slightly different. Not that I’ve never given a friendly massage before, but they had always stayed just friendly. The transition between friendly and friendlier was, well let’s just say I’m glad I have a cute giggle, because I was doing a lot of it. Nervous giggling with a big silly grin on my face. Of course part of that is because I was very much looking forward to the rest of our little get together.

I was also surprised with how thoroughly and consistently my work arouses me. There’s something about being in control of a situation that allows me to fully immerse myself in the playful sensuality of it. I discovered this with my first forays into the hobby: because I have control over the situation, and because I am mentally prepared there are no distractions from the pleasure of your company and your touch. During a massage, the situation is even more under my control and so it is far easier to relax into full dedication to the task at hand. I can feel my breath quicken, my eyes focus, then blood starts to flow to certain sensetive areas where the throbbing tempts me to throw caution to the winds and tumble together in mad passion. I find myself often lounging for a while after, glowing with sweat and oil, toying with myself in the memory of my encounter. In this interaction I get everything I want. I get to give pleasure and get lust in return. I am free to explore budding relationships and am in turn allowed glimpses into other worlds. I provide companionship and receive joy. I am a safe place and that fills me with pride.

In short, I am more than pleased to have begun this journey and I encourage old friends and new to walk with me. I’ve still got a lot of learning to do. Might you fancy yourself my teacher? 😉

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Pant(ie)s!!

First, a nod to one of my favorite musical artists of all time: Jonathan Coulton

I have to wear a uniform at work. Up until recently it was: black shoes, black tights, black pencil skirt tailored to mid thigh, black suit jacket and baggy blue undershirt. Tights. Every. Night. Now I don’t have a problem with tights. I have quite a number of them in varying colors, textures, patterns, and levels of sexpot but wearing boring black tights eight hours a day, five days a week, 52 weeks a year… it gets old. Last week was glorious. Last week we got pants. This is a huge accomplishment for our manager who has been lobbying on behalf of the women here for several years against the stodgy sensibilities of the owners. Women can’t wear pants because… well, we’re women! We are also not allowed to actually tend bar, but that’s not a formal restriction, it’s just how the owners like it and… well, that’s another story.

Right now the story is of the pants! We are supposed to purchase our new pants from Macy’s but I, as a denizen of the night, am not often downtown when the store is open and so have been wearing yoga pants to work. It is glorious. I’m sure it’s highly inappropriate because boy do they cling to the backside, but it’s so freeing and relaxing. They are even high waisted so I can tuck my shirt in which is more than I can say for the Macy’s fashion work pants. Of course the butt-hugging nature of the yoga pants means boy-shorts or lacy panties only, to avoid lines and maintain an illusion of decorum. This brings me to my metaphysical revelation of the day: wedgies can be fucking hot.

Wedgies? I know, weird, but hear me out, ok? The word wedgie is awful and not sexy at all. It comes with connotations of middle school bullying, streaks, and that uncomfortable tickle that must. be. satisfied. However, as I walk around my little castle behind the desk I notice that my sexy gray lacy panties are hugging my soft round cheeks very well. I am acutely aware that, were I not wearing pants, the bottom of my bottom would show, that little ass shelf made by a woman’s finely rounded tush when she stands with legs straight and back arched. The mild discomfort of the lace tracing little crescents atop my moon reminds me with every step that under my clothes I look sexy as hell. I’m a little seductive demon in gray and I know it. The knowledge is sexy and it shows in my face and my walk. I don’t much like thongs, but I can absolutely understand now why they make women feel sexy. When I feel that little string tickling my rosebud, I know my apple is in the eye of every man in the room and the lust is palpable. So when you think ‘aren’t they uncomfortable?’ the answer is yes, they are delightfully, sexily uncomfortable and that’s why we wear them.

I think I may buy a few more pairs this week 😉