Friday, February 22, 2008



Amendment to this blog entry.

Stupid was enjoying the exposure a little too much for my liking. Hence the swift removal of his photo. He just doesn' t deserve to be exposed. My apologies to all other readers.

Original entry:

The picture says it all. This sissy does not know the different between the words 'silly' and 'stupid'. He has always had a 'hard' time differentiating between the two. This is an example of stupid:

He gave a Mistress a full video of him being.... 'silly', which was rather 'stupid' of him when he knew full-well he would end up pissing her off. So, when he came crying to Me, his long term Mistress, I said he was.......... stupid!

These photo will be up until I am satisfied he has learned the important difference between the two aforementioned words. Let it be known, I don't expect him to suddenly develop an interest in pouring over the dictionary, but it will for a moment make him aware of his own... stupidity.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Not surprising

One doesn't always have the right words for things, does one?

Some of my callers are what one might refer to as "gentlemen callers" if it weren't for a certain confusion about the genetic paraphernalia betwixt and between their... er.... ears? Nearly.

Gentle? Yes. Callers? Yes. Men?

Well. Let me tell you a story. A personal story, in fact. A memoir. Yes, that's the word. Manoir. Some years ago (oh, c'mon - a woman doesn't reveal her age, now does she?) I was enjoying the company of a certain man. Let's call him Sam. We spent time together doing the usual things - movies, museums, dinner, copter skiing - well maybe not that last bit - and in the fullness of time we were in a position to become intimate. We were on his couch watching the telly, his arm around my shoulders and my shoulder snuggled against his side. Yes, I know - boring and traditional. Now, Sam had never been very pushy or assertive, and he'd been shy about being physical in any way that could be considered sexual. Oh, yes, he was a dear - holding hands, rubbing my back on occasion, taking my arm in his. The kind of thing my sister and I used to do.

Anyway, I laid my hand on his thigh and for a moment he stiffened. No, not like that. He sat up straight. He mumbled a bit and choked out a sentence, something about how much he enjoyed my company but how he wasn't really all that like other men. I laughed and told him that no men were like other men but I didn't mind. I was feeling a bit frisky and moved my hand up his thigh and, just imagine my surprise, when I came to the bulge, it just wasn't there. Not a hint of it! I've always been a bit of an adventurer, so rather than pull my hand back in horror (as if!), my fingers crept forward... and forward... and down between his thighs and - VOILA! - there it was, the hiding Houdini! Tucked down, and as my fingers ran down it I had the oddest feeling. It was almost as if I was touching myself - this valley between mounds on either side.

Horrified? No, not in the least. I mean, clearly he was a man, if an exceptionally sensitive and gentle one. And, yes, it was there - his package, as it's called. But it was wrapped quite differently. And felt strangely familiar. And made me incredibly intrigued.

I still get the feeling, talking with callers, whose shame isn't that they don't measure up to, well, full manhood, but that they don't measure up to the knowledge and understanding they have of themselves. Yes, they may be different. Less obtrusively manly. More sweetly and - yes - seductively sensitive. But they don't see that. At times, I just want to cocoon them, or mommiefy (is that mummify?) them and bring my lips to their ear and stroke their smooth, nearly hollow crotches and tell them that they're lovely... just the way they are.