Mr Jones has a thing for tails. Not entirely a fetish but he does have a thing for it. I own a tail. I wouldn’t say I don’t enjoy wearing it. There was a particularly hot session this one time with Johnny that involved a tail and being tied in this interesting position. Fun times were had. But anal is definitely a sometimes food for me.
Teasing is more my thing. I mean what woman doesn’t like to be admired and lusted after. So a scenario I think about often is going out wearing a butt plug. No knickers and a short skirt. So that watchers get a glimpse of a jewel when I bend over. Just a peek that makes them wonder at first. So that they have to look again, hoping for a glimpse to confirm their suspicions. Then when the get that second look they realise that they want more than just a look.
I wonder what it would feel like to walk around with that kind of stimulation? To have that feeling but have to pretend that everything is normal. Would sitting be extra stimulating? Would standing and teasing be an escape from the physical stimulation but a double edged sword because the mental stimulation would be amped up? How aroused would I be? All interesting questions.
Perhaps the biggest question is do I dare? It is one thing to have the fantasy and think about it in the comfort of your home. But another to actually do it. Am I game? To walk into a public (ish) place with something like that in place. And if I do how do I show what I am wearing without it being contrived? Perhaps it will happen one day. Perhaps I will even be brave enough to go out wearing a tail. Time will tell. But first I need to shop.
It is funny how you have these conversations with colleagues. You know the ones. Where they talk about something they think is cutting edge but really it is so vanilla. What is even more scary is these conversations are dangerous for me. I am almost incapable of lying. So participating in this conversation is hard. How do I say enough that I look cool without completely outing myself.
The topic of hall passes came up. I raised my eyebrows as my friend waxed lyrical about her celebrity hall pass and how delicious he was. I was a little baffled. Her nominated celebrity hall pass is Robbie Williams. I know many women find him dreamy but I cannot, for the life of me see the attraction. The second thing that baffles me is the whole concept of a hall pass. What are the chances that you will actually get into a situation that you can proposition or be propositioned by this person? And then if you do, what are the chances that they will be interested in you? Essentially it is a sexual fantasy. But somehow one that has become acceptable in mainstream water cooler conversation.
Later in the week the same group of people had a conversation about window shopping. And the old adage that it is OK to check out the talent as long as you don’t pursue it. I trod the same tightrope of not contributing while trying not to look like a complete idiot. There was a moment when I considered dropping one of those comments that made people think. But I refrained. In both of those situations my way of thinking is why lust after something you can’t have? Especially when there is usually something just as desirable that you CAN have.
Do I have a hall pass? Hell yes!!. I have one whenever I want with just about whoever I want. With the exception of a grand total of one person that I have met. Probably a few others I haven’t met yet but for the most part Mr Jones trusts my judgement. Obviously this kind of concept is something I can’t discuss around the water cooler. It is something that requires a bit more social lubricant and a different setting. I wish people could be more enlightened. I wish I didn’t have to be so careful what I say.
I certainly don’t wish for Robbie Williams in my bed though.
Many years ago when I started polefit the industry was different. The way people like me were instructed was a little bit frightening if I am honest. I remember back then having issues with my mood. (Depression / anxiety / having bad day I really didn’t know the difference.) One of the things that stuck with me was that I could walk into a lesson feeling low and drive home feeling like I was the most powerful woman on the planet. When I moved studios the feeling of being powerful declined. I wasn’t progressing because of poor instruction but I kept going because I loved the body positive atmosphere of the place.
Fast forward to now. I am at a studio that is close to my house. Their training methods are amazing and I wish every day that I had them five or more years ago. But for the longest time I have been fighting the demon that tells me I am not good enough and that I will never do this. I considered quitting but the thing that I kept asking myself is “What would I do instead?”. I don’t really like the gym. Organised sport is not part of my life really. And so I kept plodding along improving ever so slowly.
Yesterday I reminded myself about those days that I went in feeling low and worthless and went out feeling strong. I reminded myself that this used to be my happy place and that I was capable of making it that way again. My day yesterday was draining and triggering. I came home and prepared myself to go out again. But I resisted the temptation to walk down the negative road. I told myself that I could do this. That this was somewhere I did belong.
Monday sneaks up on you. Like a jester playing a prank. One moment you are warm and comfortable in slumber and the next you are scrambling for the alarm. Tea can only soothe away the reality of the impending commute and day of noisy, demanding teenagers a little.
Memories of the weekend gone by fill your mind. The touch of a new lover. The way his complete attention was given over to your pleasure. How for once in your life you lay back like a slut and let the pleasure shudder through you. The idea of a sex slave always seemed foreign. But now it is the most appealing thing in the world.
Tea is almost gone. The clock says it is time to pack your bag. You remember that you promised yourself you would go to work early today. Five minutes counts as early right?
Valentines day is a strange beast. One of those ‘celebrations’. St Valentine, who the holiday is a celebration of is one of those catholic saints that has a dubious and conflicting history, much like St Patrick. Not really officially a saint but any kind of popular figure to further the ‘mission’ of the Catholic Church. Of course in our modern commercial world any kind of opportunity to milk money from people is to be expected.
So what does Valentines day look like for the Joneses? Early rise and prepare for work. Teach mostly apathetic young people all day, appointment with Physiotherapist in the afternoon and then a long conversation with a family member about a complex legal / inheritance issue we are dealing with. Some chocolate on the couch and then early bed. Mr Jones spent the day mucking around with his garden, shopping for groceries and spending time with his elderly parents.
Hollywood, or rather Netflix, would have us believe that finding “The One” is a milestone in our lives that leads to eternal happiness. That marriage should be based on love. Because without love marriage is empty and meaningless and doomed to fail. Hallmark and the promoters of modern Valentines Day would have us believe that love and romance looks like red roses and overpriced oddly flavoured chocolate.
But many of us know that happy marriages are not based on buying the largest bunch of roses. The practical cynic in me cringes at the thought of how much roses cost in Australia in 2023. For reference a dozen red roses from Interflora cost around two hundred dollars. The biologist in me cannot reconcile the industry that produces out of season, non-native flowers for this festival of commercialism. (I am trying to stop myself from ranting here. Clearly it is not working.) After being married, somewhat successfully, for around 25 years I can say that I have not missed red roses on Valentines Day. I would not say that having them would have made me happier or more invested in my marriage.
What does define and re-enforce my marriage? Weird stuff. Mr Jones has recently discovered Shein. And while it is a fast fashion outlet that also grinds my environmentalist gears a little I have been the recipient of some cute little dresses that are quite sexy. I wear them frequently so the fast fashion is negated slightly. I like that he tries to find things we both like me to wear and that in doing so he is re-affirming his belief in my attractiveness. On his part he has said he likes that I am handy to have in an emergency. He struggles to be decisive and when an elderly relative is passed out in the bathroom it is handy to have a bossy, take charge kind of wife to call the ambulance and give instructions.
It is the every day that makes things work in a relationship. The daily looks that say “It’s OK I’ve got your back here.” and the safe space to say “Really! Can you not leave your stinky shoes next to the couch.” There is no perfect marriage. Just a relationship that works and builds a place of security and a well of stuff, emotional and otherwise, that you can draw on. Red roses do not fill the well. Cadubury’s chocolate on the couch while you are watching Netflix? I think does. You can buy a lot of blocks of chocolate for two hundred dollars.
Fun fact that I learned while reading about St Valentine. He is also the patron saint of beekeepers. Not sure what the connection is there. Maybe next year you should buy some locally sourced, organic honey for your lover.
Is the goose who wakes me at night. Is it a prompt?
I mean it is night, we are in bed. But the years of being woken and losing sleep still make it hard for me to wake someone else lest they suffer my fate. Even if they will be rewarded for being awake. Somehow I can’t get in the headspace.
Even if I tried I don’t feel the energy I need to build my own arousal. I don’t want to do the ‘work’ of arousing two people. I want someone to arouse me and be excited by me. That person isn’t in bed with me right now. Somewhere during the years of small children, tiredness, and poor mental health he slipped away. Now he has become the person he berated me for being while I was fighting those demons.
The weekend dawned full of promise. The forecast was good. Perfect boating weather. We rose early to get a good start on things. Picked up our friends and made our way to the harbour. I wore my new dress purchased by Mr Jones. He does have good taste.
The sun was shining and we enjoyed a leisurely sail to beautiful Moreton Island. As we dropped anchor we were treated to an excellent close up view of two sea turtles courting. It is always amazing how these creatures that seem so ungainly can move so nimbly and even gracefully in the water. Our friends were surprised at how quickly they could move when they chose to.
As we were travelling I chatted with a friend and organised a play date. I was excited. it was the first time I had planned a solo session for a while. It felt like time. As we prepared to launch kayaks to spend time paddling over the shallow sand flats in the hope of encountering sting rays and more turtles I picked up a stray broom and placed it in the front locker. The locker lid is heavy and has a relatively narrow lip. I didn’t place my toe properly, the gas strut was corroded and now the nail on my right big toe is split in half.
Yes it hurt. No I did not get to go kayaking. Or walking on the beach. Lots of sitting with my foot elevated. I took the opportunity to colour. Which apparently is great for your mental health.
When we returned to dry land I visited the local medical centre for a proper dressing a tetanus vaccination and an X-ray order. More visits to medical professionals. Not entirely happy about this. Not to worry I began preparing for my date.
Then texts took a worrying turn. My friend was being “pussy blocked” by a relative. Time ticked by, We had dinner and I could feel my mental health slipping. I called it at 8pm. I wasn’t ready to head out for a 40 minute drive and then return after midnight. As frustrating and disappointing as it was I finished the night with one of the most faithful of my friends and some last minute marking.
There is something about the love of a cat. They don’t make promises. They just love you when they are ready to fully commit. And then it is soft, purring, and transfixing.
This morning I woke feeling ready to face the world. I was ready to face the world before the alarm. I love being like this. Mornings are so much better when I can enjoy the quiet before everyone else is up. Just me and the bird, shooting the breeze together and enjoying our breakfast and some play time together.
I am coming off the second night of pain free sleeping. It isn’t like I am in excessive pain but I have learned that even a little pain has a massive effect on how well a person can sleep. Especially when you don’t sleep particularly well in the first place. Today I am thankful for finding the most amazing physiotherapist and strapping tape. Here is to building my knee up so that the spectre of Osteo-arthritis becomes a distant future problem.
Next step, finding a psychologist to get these head demons sorted!
What is it about fart noises? Even fifteen year old boys cannot disguise their mirth at that sound or talk of farting. So much so it will grab their attention from anything. It seems strange looking at a group of fifteen year olds sometimes. Some of them still look like children. Some of them are starting to look like men. They have muscles and the beginnings of facial hair.
But they still behave like children. Laughing at fart noises and teasing the girls they are attracted to. The clamour of their bodies blurs the reason of their minds. They are still to learn the finesse of flirting. They are still to learn how to behave like adults and so they revert to childish pranks and behaviour.
One by one they will grow and change until finally they will be a group of young men. With full beards and strong bodies. As they grow and are shaped by life their childishness will disappear.
But still the sentence “Why is gas escaping an anus so funny?” will make them grin.
Corrupting Mrs Jones 