Not punching people in the face

So I’m a teensy bit aggressive and confrontational. I also have a distinct lack of patience.

This has led to me occasionally punching someone in the face when they cross a line.

But I’ve been working on that. I haven’t punched anyone in in face in like six months.

But okay, to be fair, seriously, that guy deserved it. And I don’t regret punching him at all.

It was December, and the casinos were open again. I grabbed my mask and decided I wanted a drink.

And do you remember what happens when I try going to a bar by myself?

This guy came up, hitting on me. I thanked him and told him I wasn’t interested. He kept pushing, so I told him to fuck off.

He started rubbing up on me, so I called security. They told him to back off. He came back.

So I punched him in the face. No conversation, no talking, no waiting to see what he was going to say this time. As soon as he was close enough, he got punched in the face.

And security came back in force. But who did they grab and escort to that dark dingy office that every casino has in every movie? Who did they treat like a criminal?

I’ll give you three fucking guesses.

And the main security guard was such a condescending prick. He lectured me, like, “We’re adults here. We are supposed to handle problems like adults. We use our words.”

And I got pissed (and I was buzzed). I said, “If you’d done your fucking job the first time I came to you with this problem, I wouldn’t have had to handle it myself. God forbid you have to stand up to another man. No, that’s just too scary. It’s so much easier to let him harass a woman and sexually molest her on your property, and then lecture her when she does your job for you, you absolute fucking coward.”

Oh, I was pissed. And I didn’t have Kazander or Sounder or anyone there to calm me down or hold me back. I got downright mean.

He finally told me he wouldn’t ban me from the casino, but this would be my only warning, and he “expected me to behave myself.”

So whatever. I can guarangoddamntee that asshole didn’t grind up on anyone else the rest of that night, and it’s not because security told him to leave me alone, it’s because he got punched in the face.

He learned the same lesson that small children are taught: shit has consequences.

I should work security.

Anyway, I was hanging with this Mexican couple the other night. It was late, and suddenly this big group of drunk college-age white American kids came in. They were loud, rowdy, arm-wrestling on tables and just having a grand old time.

But, while annoyingly loud, I was fine with that. Just innocent drunken rowdiness. Boys being boys.

Until their friends came in. These guys were wearing speedo-type swimsuits, and started air-humping behind every woman in the place.

They came up behind me, but I waited. Because the staff was already moving. They wear all black, and the entire energy of the room changed, and all of a sudden it was like you saw these men in black just swooping in from every direction, all at once.

Surprisingly not this time, Alistair

And I’ve been trying to refrain from punching people, and obviously the staff wasn’t messing around, so I stayed seated and let them handle it.

They really weren’t playing around, either. The whole thing, from the time the second group came in, until the time security showed up, was maybe 30 seconds (I was drunk, so my perception of time might be off). Maybe a full minute before they got all of them out the door.

I was impressed, honestly. And relieved. And happy to sit there and let the staff handle it, since they obviously took it seriously. It was nothing like the “meh, shrug” attitude you see in the US when a guy crosses that line.

But apparently I’d tensed up. After they left, the husband said I looked like I was about to go off on the kids. I laughed and told him I thought about it, but didn’t want to risk being thrown out of the hotel.

He looked at me like I had three heads. So I explained last time I punched someone, and I got in trouble.

He looked at me like I’d just grown a fourth.

“What? Oh no, this is Mexico. That doesn’t happen here. As long as he’s 18, you’ll never get in trouble for that.”

His wife chimed in. “Why do you think you never see Mexican boys doing that? You wouldn’t be the first woman in this country to teach a drunk boy that lesson.”

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m kinda a fan of the US, it’s kinda my favorite place. But goddamn, you know, we could learn a thing or two from folks down here.

Even so, I’m glad I refrained. I’m trying to not be a complete asshole, and I really was impressed with how fast and how effectively the staff handled it. As long as the people who are supposed to care about my safety actually do care, I’m fine to sit tight and let them handle problems.

It was kind of an eye opener, though, just seeing the difference in how that sort of thing is handled. Like, the staff didn’t care about the rowdiness, I think one of them was going over to ask the first group to tone it down, but that was it.

It wasn’t until the kids started fucking with the women that suddenly it was like all the fun was immediately sucked out of the room. It was tangible. You could feel it. There was nothing good-natured or accommodating about the staff as they came running. They ran in, barking orders into their walkie-talkies, and everything about their faces, their body language, their energy was intense and serious. They almost felt dangerous.

Like, they weren’t getting the guys out because that’s what they’re paid to do. There was almost an anger behind it (though they are not US cops, so obviously they know how to deescalate instead of escalate issues. But to be fair, even McDonald’s workers have better deescalation capabilities than cops. Because, *sips tea,* they get fired if they don’t).

So it wasn’t hostile or violent, but it almost felt like there was this anger simmering underneath the surface in all the staff. Like they took it personally. It’s hard to explain, but it took me completely by surprise, and like, I was okay to be the damsel in distress and let the fierce knights come charging to my rescue.

I’d never felt anything like that in the US. You’d never see anything like that back home.

And it felt good, honestly. Like, oh, I can relax. I don’t have to be on my guard constantly, ready to hit someone at a moment’s notice. I can trust these people to step in, I don’t have to deal with it myself.

As if I needed another reason to completely adore this place.

And it makes me wonder, how much of me being an asshole is because I feel like I have to be on my guard constantly? How much of how aggressive and confrontational I am is because of shit like what happened at the casino, and would I still feel that way if I could trust the people around me to help out if I need it?

How many American women are assholes because we feel like we’re alone? How many women have bitten a guy’s head off for seemingly innocent shit, because she knows there is a size and strength difference, and she can’t rely on anyone to help her, so she needs to compensate for that difference and the fact that she has no one to back her up, by striking first, striking hard, without mercy?

A group of scared people who don’t know how to handle certain shit and don’t feel like anyone has their back, so all they want is to hurt someone before that person has the chance to hurt them. It’s not right, it’s not healthy, but you heal Johnny by supporting him and teaching him that he isn’t as alone as he feels, not by arresting him or beating him up or telling him he’s on his own, and goddamn I love the first season of that show.

I mean, yeah I can admit that American women seem to be getting meaner, myself included. But I wasn’t mean and quick to punch people before I had issues like at the casino, or at the swinger’s club where I hit a guy for grabbing my ass without permission, and he didn’t even get kicked out, or my boss and my male coworkers stayed silent instead of warning me that one of the other bosses had drugged my beer (thankfully a female coworker pulled me aside and warned me).

I wasn’t born an asshole, guys. No one is. And maybe the US should take a note from how Mexico handles this specific kind of situation. Because if I could go to a bar by myself and feel safe, I’d probably be way more likely to be kind and friendly if you come up and offer to buy me a drink.

I still loved the couple’s reaction, though. Like, “Honey, you’re in Mexico. If a guy gets in your face and won’t back off, you are well within your rights to fucking make him.”

And like Sounder said when I told him about it the next day, we need to make “Fuck around and find out” the basis for our laws in the US. I think it would make a difference in a lot of unexpected ways.

Becoming Bar Mom

Fair warning, y’all, I’m drunk. And I ramble uncontrollably when I’m sober, you think I get less talkative when I’m inebriated?

Hehehehehe……

So I’m in Mexico. This is our first vacation since the pandemic, so of course, there are hoops to jump through, and the resort is at half capacity (and half staff), and we have to wear our masks, and social distance, blah blah blah.

But honestly, it’s not as bad as I was expecting. It’s mostly just common sense. Don’t be an idiot, just wear the damn mask (because my only child can’t get vaccinated yet, and I haven’t punched anyone in the face in like six months, so I’m overdue, bitch test me, I fucking dare you).

Anyway.

So it’s actually been really great. Sure there are some annoyances and inconveniences, but the staff seems to be working even harder to make up for it, and our butler and my favorite bartender remember us, and even bent a couple of rules for us, and honestly, even with the extra hoops and the tests and the inconveniences and the annoyances, this might my favorite vacation I’ve ever been on.

Hell, I walked up to the bar in the lobby, and one of the bartenders came up and greeted me. We weren’t here last year, but he remembered me from two years ago (though he got my name just barely wrong. He called me Gemma. But hey, after two years, that’s not bad. I’m impressed).

The extra fun started the other night. I got to talking to these two women at the bar, and we struck up a conversation.

And for most of my adult life, I was always the youngest in every group. Now I’m 35, so that’s changed.

At first, I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. In the past couple of years, I’ve lost a lot of things that were kind of central to how I define myself. First I lost my voice, then I lost my “plus size” status (which doesn’t seem like a thing, but realizing I was too small for Torrid was kind of an unexpected hit), then I lost my “young adult” status, and those were all things I loved about myself.

I had an entire plan for singing. I was damn proud of being plus size. I’d always been the youngest in pretty much every group. I loved my youth.

There have been a couple of other things too, that are a little harder to explain. But now it’s all gone. It’s been a lot to get used to. It’s been…

Well, not bad, actually. I have moments where I feel a little lost, but on the whole, it’s actually kind of exciting. Because now I have to go out and find new things, new ways to define myself.

And one of those new things is “bar mom.” I’m not the youngest anymore, but a couple of times now, both here in Cancun and back home in Vegas, I’ve found myself surrounded by women practically half my age, and holy shit, I kind of adore it.

These girls haven’t done anything. They haven’t seen anything. They’re barely adults (especially true here, where the drinking age is 18).

And they see me, this effortlessly confident woman, hot as fuck, sauntering up to the bar, and all of a sudden I have them hanging on my every word.

Which, I mean, I don’t know if you guys know this about me, but I have a teensy bit of an ego. So having a group of 21-year-olds sitting around like, “Teach us, o wise seer. Impart to us thy wisdom,” is kinda nice.

So the other night, I’m hanging out at the bar, chatting with the bartenders, and got to talking to these sisters.

And they’re both insanely hot. Like, just stupid-hot.

I mean like…

We’ll call them Hannah and Montana (not their real names, but their real names rhyme just like that). One is 18, the other is 20, sitting together getting plastered on a beach in Mexico, it was like they walked right out of a porno, I swear to gawd.

And as the night went on, we just totally hit it off, and suddenly we just totally hit it off.

I brought them back to my room. Kazander was off with his family, so I asked if he’d be cool fucking off for half an hour, and I’d find him when we were done. He was insanely jealous (justifiably so), but he agreed, so I brought them back to our room and that’s when we really hit it off.

It wasn’t like how it is in porn, though. Sure, it was a little kinky, just because they’re sisters, but they didn’t really do anything with each other. They were both completely focused on me.

Which, I mean, I kinda like being the center of attention, so that was nice.

I fucked them both raw, then I walked them back to their room (because I’m a lady, dammit), then I came back and passed the fuck out, because I was just a little sloshed, myself.

I was pretty proud of myself. But then, a couple nights later, I saw them again, and they literally screamed my name, and jumped up from the table to hug me, and the blonde asked for round 2.

So I mean, I was pretty goddamn proud of myself. Here I am, 35 years old, curvy, with stretch marks and big thighs, and I pulled off something every sculpted-Adonis dudebro wishes he could pull off.

Those guys fantasize about it, but I actually did it. Without even trying.

And I did it so well, they came back wanting more.

And just how hot are we talking? Well, I’m not showing their faces, but the night they screamed my name across the resort’s central plaza, I did manage to get a picture with them.

Again, no faces, so y’all are just gonna have to take my word for it, but even without seeing their faces, can you imagine walking through a beach resort with one of those on each arm?

‘Cuz I don’t have to imagine it.

And it’s funny, I’d kinda forgotten just how hot 20-year-old bodies are. Don’t get me wrong, I love my body, I’m okay with my flaws, I know how to turn heads and carry a room, etc. But I also know that I have the kind of body you only get from 30+ years of tacos, alcohol, and mild neglect, plus having a kid.

But these girls don’t have those problems. No stretch marks, no cellulite, everything stays in place when the clothes come off, just smooth and tight and fucking hot.

And hanging on my every word, following me like puppies.

I was just impossible to be around. I felt so bad for poor Kazander having to deal with my ego, so I promised that the next time I find sexy fun, he’s included.

Which… just so happened to fall into my lap later that very night. He’d already gone back to the room, and I was on my way back, I’d just stopped at the pool to finish my drink, when another woman walked up to me.

I honestly don’t remember how, but we ended up in her room, and I had Kazander meet us there. Turns out, they wanted to be poly, but they live in a small-ish town in a red state, so that makes things difficult. They haven’t been able to actually do anything yet.

And they were hot, too. The woman was especially hot. She was in her forties, fit and toned, with a gorgeous rack.

The husband was hot, too. He was in his fifties, muscular and fucking tall. He had to be every bit of 6’5″. I’m not used to having to look up to talk to people.

But he was such a gentleman. A teensy bit heavy on the benevolent sexism (he kept insisting that I text Kazander so he’d know where I was, and kept wanting to make sure I felt safe in the room with them), but I can appreciate the thought behind it. I’m aware bad shit can happen in Mexico.

I mean, bad shit can happen at a music concert in my hometown, too, but again, whatever, he was doing it to be nice, and while I don’t love being infantilized and seen as a helpless delicate flower, I also recognize the dude is from a different time in a conservative state, where they still think women can’t survive in a world of dangerous scary men without a dangerous scary nice man to protect them.

Ugh. That shit annoys me. You want to make me feel safe? Stop creeping me the hell out with that shit. Knock it off and go make me a sandwich.

That goes for all of you reading this, too. If you ever do that, knock it off. Being seen as if you’re a child isn’t cute. It doesn’t make us want to fuck you. It’s creepy. It’s uncomfortable.

I’m not a child. I’m old enough to drink, old enough to vote, old enough fuck your mom so hard and so good, she’ll leave her husband and call me Daddy.

Quick, someone ask me how I know. Maybe I’ll tell that story one day.

Not the point of this post, though. I appreciate that the guy was trying to be considerate, and he is a big guy, so I’m sure he’s dealt with being perceived as a threat everywhere he goes.

I’m gonna bitch about it here, because I can, but in the moment, I was good with just shrugging it off and letting it go.

But it was so cute, the wife told me he was nervous and self-conscious, because he’s a little older, and you know sometimes the plumbing doesn’t work as well in a man his age, and he’s also not quite at the level of hotness she is.

So of course, I immediately thought he was so sweet and adorable, and decided I wanted him to feel like he can still rock a girl’s world.

Kazander stayed with her in their room, and I led him to ours.

And of course, he was intimidated and flustered and nervous, so the performance anxiety kicked in.

Which, first of all, was great. This guy was huge, okay. Broad, strong, tall as fuck. But once I got him alone, he was like a blushing virgin.

I adored it. I wanted to give the sweet tall boy a good time. And I’ve always liked older men, so I know how to work around performance issues.

But I was reminded once again just how different vanilla men and sub men are.

And that’s something I told Kazander later. It’s always weird with vanilla guys. I don’t really know how to relate to them all that well. If the husband was a nervous sub, I would’ve known exactly how to fix that.

But a vanilla guy? Like, literally, what do I do? They’re like a different species or something. How do I handle a nervous vanilla guy?

I mean, I figured it out, because it’s me, of course I did. But I thought that was kind of funny, just trying to figure out how to give this boy a good time, and make him feel like “the man,” and give him a bit of a confidence boost, while also working around his performance anxiety and his nervousness.

He really was so cute, though. And eventually, he did relax and loosen up a bit. Once he did, we were golden.

The poor sweet thing, I think I broke him. But I managed to get him back to his room and traded him back for Kazander.

Unfortunately, they were leaving the next day, but they come to Vegas a lot, so I got the wife’s number. If it works out, they could turn out to be a couple of fun play partners when they’re in town.

But yeah, if I wanted to nitpick, I could find things to complain about. And the Karens and Chads are out in full force this time.

I mean, there are kids literally right down the street from the resort that go to bed hungry each night, but god forbid Chad has to wait 5 minutes for his refill.

We had semi trailers, in our own country, filled with dead bodies, but god forbid Karen can’t have an extra lounge chair at the pool.

And the poor overworked staff is doing everything they can. There’s a pandemic here, too. Some of these people have lost family members, too. And they come here and smile and bend over backwards so we can have a good vacation.

So every time I see someone chewing out an employee, I get super loud and snide and just dickish about it. Like, “Oh, no! A 5-minute wait is just going to ruin his whole vacation!” Or, “Hey, we found the woman who has never been told ‘no’ in her entire life.”

Or, “hey, cut her a break. The worst thing that ever happened to her was that time she got bangs. Poor thing can’t handle waiting for a chair.”

Yeah, I’m not making friends with the other guests. But I am making friends with the employees, and they’re the important ones. And now every time we walk into the lobby, or up to the pool bar, or the spa, or the privilege lounge, we have employees smiling and calling our names.

So the assholes can sit in their rooms and pout because they’re too fragile to handle literally anything, and oh their entire lives are just ruined.

I’m gonna hang out with the bartender who shouts “Mi Jenni, mi amor!” across the lobby every time I walk in. And I’m gonna have fun with the sexy waiters and cabana boys, and get completely plastered, and play in the pool, and just have a goddamn blast.

And we’re still here for another whole week. Yeah, I’m a happy Jen.

History’s Badass Bitches, part 3

So I’ve done one of these on the Amazons, and one on a Spartan queen named Arachidamia, but they were some of the posts that were lost, so I’ll have to rewrite them. Which I’ll do at some point, when I’m feeling productive.

Today, though, since it’s the 4th of July, I figured I’d be all patriotic and shit, and talk about a woman who helped build Nevada.

I was born and raised in Nevada, and I can rattle off all kinds of names and years and useless statistics, because dear god do we love Nevada history here in Vegas schools.

And don’t get me wrong, I love it, too. This is my home. And it happens to have a really fascinating history. We’re the Silver State. The Battle Born state.

We helped the North win the Civil War. We helped build California (San Francisco is a nice place, right? You’re welcome). We carved a life out of an extreme and inhospitable climate.

And by the way, when I say “we,” I’m talking primarily about women.

Prostitutes, specifically.

Because pretty much everything you’ve been taught about the Old West is dead wrong.

We were taught that gunslingers and cowboys and shady saloon owners were the backbone of society. That shootouts happened every day, and the streets ran red.

It was a bloody and lawless place, where only the strongest, toughest men survive.

And it’s all 100% romanticized bullshit. The West was built on whores and immigrants. End of list.

But it’s important to remember that in the Old West, sex work wasn’t seen the way we see it now. Whores were respected members of the community. Even in places where women couldn’t vote (many parts of the Old West allowed women voting long before it became a law, specifically because women were usually among the wealthiest and most influential members of any given community), they were still given seats on councils, they were listened to, their words and opinions given weight.

Which is why all that bullshit about women becoming cattle if society implodes drives me nuts. Because we had that here. Utter lawlessness.

And women excelled in ways that few men did.

Turns out, even in violent, lawless, harsh environments with no established society, humans are humans. The streets never ran red, shootouts weren’t a thing (the OK Corral is one of the bloodiest battles in the Old West, and a whopping three dudes died).

No. Nothing you think you know about how this country came to be is real. You owe your existence to Mexicans, Chinese, Indians, and whores.

Cowboys were nothing. Myth has turned them into these glamorous, romanticized “Man’s Man” types, but in reality, they were almost exclusively poor immigrants. Mexicans mostly, with a few Chinese thrown in.

It’d be like if, in 200 years, we decided to romanticize undocumented field laborers. Yeah they’re around, and our economy would be fucked without them, but they’re not exactly a focal point of the culture as a whole.

No, cowboys didn’t build the West. Whores did.

Because, particularly in mining towns (for which Nevada is famous), the men would get there and build a few shacks and a post office.

Then the women would show up, looking for work. Because of the nature of prostitution, they would quickly become the wealthiest members of the community.

And they would look across these sad little tent cities and say, “yeah, you know, fuck everything about that.”

They’re the ones who built things like hospitals. When they started having kids, they built schools and permanent family homes. They built the towns and cities we’re still living in today.

Go thank a hooker.

But when speaking about Nevada, everyone knows about Las Vegas. Today, that’s Nevada’s biggest draw, the thing that puts it on the map.

But before Vegas was a thing, there was Virginia City, up north, near Reno.

And the history of Virginia City is really, really interesting, but for today, I want to talk about one specific resident.

I want to talk about Julia Bulette.

Julia Bulette was a prostitute born in England, who came to America and moved to Virginia City. She was the first woman there, so she immediately set up a brothel and became the wealthiest person in the town.

Today, there are a lot of myths about her, and many historians have romanticized her, which makes it harder to sort through fact and fiction.

Some will mention her beauty. But in all honesty, nothing written about her at the time labels her as exceptionally beautiful.

They say she was tall. Thin. She had kind eyes and a warm smile. She was charming and funny, with a quick wit and an easy, infectious laugh.

She was average-looking, but she knew how to command attention and respect.

And she was pretty much immediately universally loved.

She had a soft spot for miners, and fell in love with the gritty, rough culture of the infant mining town. She involved herself in every aspect of that culture, and quickly became the unofficial leader of the town.

When an epidemic swept through, she threw open the doors of her brothel and personally nursed ill miners back to health.

When a fire ravaged the town, she worked tirelessly, right alongside the town’s fire brigade, for hours. Even when the men around her were exhausted, she kept going.

They later held a parade in her honor, presented her with a fireman’s hat, and made her an honorary member of the fire brigade.

And today, one of the only surviving portraits of her shows her with the fireman’s hat they gave her.

But she took the wealth and influence she earned, and put it right back into the town. She funded and helped write new training guidelines and procedures to keep firefighters safe. She wrote to and recruited knowledgeable experts to make sure the town would be safer for the residents (and as it happens, Virginia City developed some significant technological advances in mining).

As wealthy as she was, she spent herself practically into debt, funneling her money and power right back into the townspeople who followed her.

She loved the town, and the town loved her.

Others took notice, too.

You may have heard of Samuel Clemens. You may know him better as Mark Twain.

We don’t know how he came up with his pen name, but a popular theory is that he came up with it while in Nevada. Virginia City, specifically.

I came across one theory that Julia Bulette is the one who gave him the idea for the name. Now, I think that’s kind of a stretch, probably one of the romanticized myths that have sprung up about her, but Clemens and Bulette were close.

She had a purity in her that everyone could see. When she walked into a room, people noticed.

In January of 1867, she was found dead, strangled and beaten, in her home. A drifter named John Millain was quickly convicted and hung for her death (though he insisted, til his dying breath, that he didn’t kill her), and literally the entire town came to see him hang.

Mark Twain, who was too far away and couldn’t make it back in time for her funeral, made sure to be there for Millain’s execution, and was seen paying his respects at Julia’s grave.

Her funeral procession was thousands strong. Her body was transported in a glass-walled hearse (similar to the glass coffins in fairy tales such as Snow White). The firemen were next, followed by the Nevada militias, and then the miners, and then all the citizens whose lives she touched. The town closed down, to allow its citizens to attend her funeral (it closed down again when Millain was executed).

And her legacy lived on. A railroad honored her memory by naming one of its nicest coaches after her. Her portrait hung in every saloon and casino, and patrons routinely toasted her.

She was immortalized as Cherry Malotte in the novel, The Spoilers. She was the subject of countless articles, stories, and tall tales. One author claimed she was written about more than any other woman of the Comstock Lode (the silver rush upon which Nevada was founded, and helped fund the North in the American Civil War).

The Virginia City chapter of E Clampus Vitus, a historical men’s society, is named after her.

There aren’t many people who did more for the Old West than she did. She built Virginia City, which went on to revitalize the dying town of San Francisco. It became the richest city in the West, and one of the most populous.

Even though politically, Nevada has historically been split pretty evenly down the middle, and Virginia City had its share of Southern sympathizers, Nevada’s Comstock Lode was the greatest ore find since the California Gold Rush, which gave the North a decided advantage in the war.

It was Virginia City that gave Nevada the population it needed to qualify for statehood. Nevada, Battle Born, burst on to the scene in the middle of the war, a new powerhouse of political clout and funding (silver was just as valuable as gold back then) that helped the North win.

Julia Bulette, an immigrant, a woman, a whore, did more for Nevada history than almost any other single person.

But we don’t learn about her because she was a whore.

She, who exuded radiance and purity so blinding, the tall tales sprang up before her body was even cold, fueled by those who loved her.

She, who cared for everyone, from the wealthiest saloon owner to the poorest miner. Who accepted everyone, regardless of origin or background or the color of their skin.

She, who built schools, who reformed firefighting training, who gave miners a place where they could feel welcome, who carried a city of thousands on her back.

She, who was the heart and soul of that city. The foundation upon which it, and later Nevada, was built.

She was a whore.

And that’s a sin that will never be forgiven. She’ll always exist in the shadows of obscurity, despite the efforts of Virginia City residents to immortalize her and pay respect to her memory.

She wasn’t just a whore to them. She wasn’t just a woman. And the effort they went through to preserve her legacy is extraordinary.

And ultimately, they succeeded.

History tried its damndest to wipe her out. The antiquated, provincial notions about women and sex that were so prevalent in the east swept westward, erasing countless women like Julia.

But Virginia City fought back. They kept her memory alive. When the American political machine came through, trying to devalue every woman who helped build their communities, Virginia City stood firm. The richest and largest city in the West, built on the back of a prostitute, would not bow to what the other side of the country said it should be.

Though to be fair, I think part of why they fought so hard was guilt.

Y’all don’t understand. The town ground to a halt when she died. Stores and saloons closed. Flags flew at half mast. Bells rang in the fire station, a mournful wail that rang out across the town.

They were devastated. Crushed. Angry. They wanted someone to pay for the death of their matriarch. They found a French drifter named John Millain, and he likely became a scapegoat.

But I don’t think Julia would have approved of that. She knew how life was in the gritty Old West, but even so, she spent her life as a voice of compassion and reason.

I think she would have been disappointed in the town’s knee-jerk emotional reaction.

And I think, once it was all said and done, and emotions subsided, the people knew that. I think that’s part of why they fought so hard for her legacy. I think they all wanted to make sure they never let her down again.

And in the end, I think they did right by her. They kept her name and her story alive, even if it’s impossible now to tell fact from fiction. I think she would be proud of what they did, and the way Virginia City, her city, changed the course of American history.

She is truly one of history’s badass bitches, and because of those people, her memory survives today.

Magic Wand

So some of you may know I’m kind of a fan of vibrating wands. I have mine, it’s my favorite and I adore it.

But it’s dying, as it does every few years. I was planning on replacing it with the same brand I always get.

Then I got an email with an offer to write a review for Adam and Eve, in exchange for a free toy and a commission for any orders made through this post.

I had mixed feelings.

So first, y’all need to understand the history of sex toys, and the sex toy industry, and Adam and Eve in particular, because you can’t

You know, it’s funny, I asked the marketing woman if there were word limits, and she said there’s no maximum.

We’re gonna go ahead and pretend there’s a maximum, and I’m not going to go into a 6,000-word history/archeology/sociology essay about the last 30,000 years of sex toys (the strap-on predates the wheel, fyi. By a lot).

All you really need to know is that, historically, vibrators were not seen as they are now. In fact, there was a time when they were marketed only to men, as a cure for impotence and ED, and they all had disclaimers that they weren’t designed for women.

Because men’s sexuality was socially acceptable, but women’s sexuality was seen as subversive and perverse. It’s a cultural attitude that we’re still trying to untangle ourselves from, and that kind of fundamental social change happens over a period of decades. It permeates every area of personal interaction. Every aspect of how women see themselves, as well as how men see women.

There are a handful of industry titans that have done some pretty heavy lifting in regards to helping expedite that process. Everyone knows about Hitachi and Vibratex (the company that made the Rabbit).

But you can’t talk about industry-defining titans without mentioning Adam and Eve. They’re the Amazon of sex toys, and they’ve done more to normalize women’s sexuality than pretty much any other organization out there.

Not only have they normalized sex toys and sexual expression, but they do quite a bit of social work and a portion of their proceeds goes to charity, for sex education and sexual health in developing countries.

An opportunity to associate with a company like that? Hell yeah, I’m down.

But…

Adam and Eve is a very mainstream organization, and as such, tends to be far more mellow than I’m used to. I mean, they’ve got some decent basic BDSM gear, but nothing that immediately jumps out at me.

I respect the corporation for the impact it’s had, and continues to have, on how society as a whole sees sex. I just never really saw myself associating with it personally.

But that aside, I wasn’t going to not jump at the opportunity to be part of that. I mean, I’m generally wary of giant corporations, but as far as giant corporations go, this is one I’m stoked to associate with.

I signed the paperwork and they sent me the Adam and Eve Brand Magic Massager Deluxe Wand.

It got in, and at first I was disappointed to find out that it has the set speeds and modes, rather than the smooth adjustment I’m used to. But to be fair, that seems to be far more popular in my experience. Most vibrating toys have the set speeds, and don’t let you just choose the intensity you want.

Which, I mean, that’s fine. The whole “One Size Fits Most” mentality is profitable in most situations. I’m not a fan, but I get it, you know?

I’m just saying I’m a little bit of a napoleonic control-monger. I like what I like, how I like it, and a setting that’s just a little too fast or a little too slow can often end up just annoying me.

And the intermittent settings do nothing but frustrate me. I have no use for them.

Yes, I’m neurotic and overly picky. We’re all aware.

But let me tell you, when it comes to tormenting subs, this wand has given me a brand new appreciation for those intermittent settings.

First, the thing is surprisingly strong. Loud as all hell, but damn strong.

It was delivered in the afternoon, and we couldn’t do anything fun until the kid went to bed, but I wanted to plug it in right away and make sure it worked.

As soon as I turned it on, I looked up at Kazander, and I could see the “oh, shit,” in his expression.

I grinned. “It’s strong.”

“I can see that.”

I had a shiny new toy. I wanted to see what sounds he makes when I poke him with it. So after the spawn went to bed, we finally got to try it out.

“How many edges are you up to?” I asked.

“Fifty-four.”

I stopped. “That’s it?

Usually, I like giving him at least 100 edges in between orgasms. And that sounds like a lot, but he’s used to it, so he can usually knock out fifty in two evenings watching porn, without breaking a sweat (it doesn’t hurt that orgasm denial is one of his top three favorite kinks, so that’s helped him get used to so many edges, so quickly).

Letting him cum after so few edges is normally something I’d save for a reward. So originally, I was just planning on using the wand to tease him. Give him another few edges, and send him to bed horny and denied.

It was a great plan. But it can’t hold a candle to what happened completely by accident.

The wand has 3 steady settings, with low, medium, and high intensity. Then it goes into all the intermittent settings, with varying speeds and intensities.

One in particular is just impressively mean. I fell in love with it right away. It almost seems random at first, with different intensities and pauses.

I pressed it against the head of his cock, and immediately he tensed up and started squirming, and made the cutest noises.

But then, all of a sudden, the intensity of his reactions skyrocketed. At first, I pulled the wand away, worrying that he was about to cum.

“Were you close?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Um, what?”

He took a second to fight through the horny fog in his brain. “It felt like I was close, but I don’t think I was going to cum.”

I arched a brow. “Really?”

“Yeah… I think.

Well, this could be interesting.

I put the wand to his cock again and turned it back on. Within a few seconds, he was back at that edge again. And now I was curious. I left the wand there even after he said he was too close.

Sure enough, he didn’t cum. The fact that it seemed so random, and kept stopping and starting, made it just intense enough to keep him riding that edge, but it wasn’t enough to push him over.

Which, you guys, let me tell you, was awesome.

It was torture for him. Just a never-ending blinding intensity.

His squirming turned to outright thrashing. He couldn’t control it. I finally had to actually tie him down, just to keep him from jerking away.

I wanted to see how long I could keep that going. How long could I keep him right there, right at that edge, without letting him cum?

Unfortunately, after a few minutes, it ended up being too much, and he came unexpectedly. But even that was great, specifically because it was so sudden. He’d spent minutes right there on that precipice, in the throes of that build-up, so he had no way of knowing when he was finally going to cross that line.

So it’s not completely foolproof. I’ll have to practice a bit with the wand, and see how to adjust to keep him on that edge indefinitely.

Because oh my god, you guys. Can you imagine?

Like, think of how it feels in that last half-second before you cum. Now prolong that feeling, with no orgasm. I didn’t even think that was possible. Not the way we managed it. Not without hours and hours and hours of intense teasing and fucking with his head beforehand.

Oh, but it’s possible, alright. And with a little practice, I’m hoping I’ll be able to manipulate that build-up. If I can, then I could potentially spend the afternoon just keeping him in that constant state of hyper-arousal.

I could do that for an entire evening. Or an entire day. Or a weekend.

Next time the inlaws are in town and take the spawn for the weekend, I’m definitely going to have to try that. I want to see what will happen if I keep him on that edge for a couple of days.

It’s a great plan. I couldn’t help but smile when I told him about it.

All he could do was sigh and say, “Yeah, can’t wait.”

Like he isn’t already fantasizing about it. Silly little boy.

Want to know the best part, though? The orgasm wasn’t even that strong. Not relative to the intensity of the prolonged buildup. He said it was enough that he felt satisfied, and it still felt good, it just was almost more of a letdown compared to how intense the edging was.

Though to be fair, he often feels that way about most of his orgasms, specifically because he likes the buildup and denial so much. He can’t do multiple orgasms, he’s very much a one-and-done kind of guy, so once he orgasms, all the pleasant feelings and buildup and horniness and awesomeness goes away, and it takes a couple of days to build it back up.

But even as far as his orgasms go, this one was remarkably average.

So I get a super intense and prolonged build-up, I get to tease him mercilessly, and even if I decide to show mercy and let him cum, the relief won’t be as intense as the torment itself.

Yeah, I’m happy. And I’m officially a fan of this wand.

So go check it out. And while you’re there, use my fancy promo code to get half off almost any single item.

Get 50% off almost any 1 adult item & FREE US/CAN shipping by using offer code DOMINA at AdamAndEve.com/?sc=DOMINA. 18+ Only.

Revisiting Chastity

I received an interesting comment on my chastity post. There’s a lot wrong with the guy’s mindset to begin with, but he was polite and respectful in his questions, and he’s not the first guy to ask these specific questions, so I decided to answer them in a post of their own.

His comment will be heavily edited because a) it’s long, and we all know not-rambling isn’t one of my strengths, and I’m trying to condense things a bit, and b) he asks a lot of questions about someone else’s relationship, which I am not going to answer because I’m not in that relationship.

But here’s the thing with relationships that you read about online

Assume it’s all 100% bullshit.

I don’t outright lie about my relationships, because this blog is as much for me as for my readers, and also because part of my motivations for the blog are education. Educating people about the ins and outs of a Femdom relationship doesn’t work if I’m not honest about the relationship.

But I’m writing a story for strangers. I’m also protecting the identities of myself, my boys, and my family. I’ve added details that are untrue. I might reference a hair color or eye color or a tattoo that doesn’t exist. I might say something happened this week, when it happened a month ago. I might focus on certain details and gloss over others.

In other words, no one who reads this blog gets a 100% accurate picture of my relationships, even with me being committed to being truthful. Because my commitments to my boys and my daughter take priority.

Rape and murder threats are a common occurrence. You think the vermin who threaten and stalk me show restraint when it comes to extending those same threats to my 9-year-old daughter?

Hell no. This is the internet and people are crazy.

I will lie out my ass without regret.

But even without that, you’re only getting my side of things. And you’re getting the summation of the fun and exciting things that happen.

You’re not necessarily getting the hours of discussion and negotiation and talks about boundaries and limitations before the fun and exciting things happen.

The descriptions you read online are the fantasy. They’re not reality. So you have to take them with a big grain of salt.

Just because a woman comes online and describes her relationship doesn’t mean that she’s telling the whole truth. She may embellish things or change things, just like I do. She may leave out the negotiation and discussion, just like I do.

Do you have any idea how many giant wall-o-text descriptions of relationships I get in a week? It’s all fantasy. It’s not real.

Stop assuming it’s real.

So.

Let’s get in to this comment.

Someone also said chastity makes men respect women. And if a woman wears a thong, he knows not to objectify.

Respectfully if a woman wears a thong, I’m going to look at her ass. She wants me to. I’m not going to stare, or catcall, start to masturbate, or any of that nonsense.

I mean…

Mkay first of all, generalizing to this extent is problematic.

Yes, someone may have said chastity makes men respect women. I’ve heard that before, some people do say that.

Some people also say the planet is like 10,000 years old and humanity got its literal start as it’s described in the Bible.

Someone saying something doesn’t make it true.

Chastity does have an effect on a man’s mindset, especially over time

But it doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t create respect in a man who doesn’t respect women.

You can’t coerce respect out of someone. It’s one of those things that must be freely given.

Also, if I wear a thong, it’s because I want you to look at my ass?

Oh, sweetheart. That’s adorable.

Are there some women who wear revealing clothing so that men will look at them?

I mean, I assume there must be. There are a few billion of us, after all.

I’ve never met one in person though.

Because I mean, you do realize we still exist even when you’re not around, right? You think we all just stop caring about how we look when we’re only surrounded by women?

You think we only want to look sexy for you?

No, precious. We don’t give a shit about what you think.

Many of us do it for ourselves.

You want to know why I put effort into my appearance? Why I like looking sexy? I’ll tell you.

It’s so that, when I’m out somewhere, I can catch a glimpse of my reflection in a window or mirror and think to myself, “… nice.

That’s it. End of list.

If others also think I look sexy, that’s cool. If my boys think I look good, that’s a bonus. I like looking good for them because I care about what they think.

Random stranger I’ve never met? I don’t give two shits about him. He’s like lawn furniture. I don’t even see him.

And as it happens, Kazander and Sounder have both repeatedly had to tell me how people around me react to me.

I don’t notice because I don’t care.

Now of course, I’m one woman and there are a few billion of us. Not all of us look sexy for ourselves.

But most women who dress up for others still aren’t doing it for you, except in a very few specific situations (for example, I dress a specific way when I go to sex clubs and swingers clubs).

They aren’t doing it for you. They’re doing it for other women.

I mean, guys. Obviously.

Y’all can’t tell the difference between cool red and warm red. Y’all think Angelina Jolie has a “natural” look.

If I want to look good for any given man taken at random, you know what I need?

I need a low-cut shirt and tight jeans. And I probably need to have taken a shower at some point in the past week.

I mean, that’s not a particularly high bar, you know? It doesn’t exactly take effort.

Now women, on the other hand, are harder to please.

I can wear a tight, low-cut dress and a random guy will think I’m hot.

A random woman might think the dress is too short. Too tight. She might think it’s cut in a way that doesn’t flatter my body. She might think it’s too revealing, that I’ve gone from “sexy” to “trashy.”

She might think my eyeshadow is uneven, or that the color of my lipstick doesn’t match my skintone. She might think my hair is too faded, or the style doesn’t match the rest of my outfit.

You don’t see any of that. You see a thong and think she’s wearing it for you.

She doesn’t give a shit about you. She gives a shit about other women. Not you.

And this is one of my pet peeves with men, one of those cultural annoyances that haven’t died off yet.

There’s this mindset that many men (not all, again, generalities are tough when you’re talking about billions of people) have this unconscious assumption that the women around you are there for you.

That we look good for you. That we’ve dressed a specific way for you.

And dump that bullshit now. You are nothing, and we don’t care about you until you give us a reason to care about you.

Don’t like it? How about you grow a pair and start standing up to other men and start policing yourselves. Stop drowning us in your hormones every time we step out of the house.

Stop throwing yourselves at my feet and maybe your approval will mean something to me.

Maybe, if I could enjoy a drink at a bar by myself, without some random dude rubbing up on me like his dick will pay my rent, I might care about how you think I look.

But they don’t give out awards for being the 8th guy today to tell me how hot I am. And at some point, goddammit, I’m allowed to be irritated at all the adoring gerbils gathered at my feet.

I mean, think about that for a second. Here’s a visualization exercise for you.

Picture Terry Crews. The Rock. Jason Mamoa. Someone huge and muscular.

Imagine literally never being able to go to a random, regular bar by yourself without a man that size checking out your ass, or hitting on you.

Even if he immediately backs off when you turn him down, that’s not a comfortable image, is it? If it happens multiple times every time you leave the house, how long would it take before you just stop caring about literally everyone like him?

I cannot go to a bar by myself unless I’m willing to deal with that.

I’ve had a guy hit on me at like 7am, when I was walking my dog wearing the frumpiest of sweat pants and an old stretched-out Tshirt.

No. Your opinion means nothing to me.

If a guy stops me on the street to compliment my jeans, it’s because I have a pulse and a warm, wet hole that he wants to stick his dick in.

If a woman stops me on the street to compliment my jeans, it’s because I’m looking damn good in them.

So fuck off, mkay. We don’t care about you. We don’t do jack shit for you. That entitlement is stupid and we want you to knock it off.

We clear? Still on the same page? Outstanding, next:

If a man needs chastity to “correct” some issue; not respecting women, masturbating, (perfectly healthy, by the way) or cheating, then this is a huge red flag not to do it. Chastity is a kink, nothing more.

You’re right. Chastity probably shouldn’t be used to fix anything (I hesitate to use absolutes here because, once again, generalities, billions of people, etc. Keep that in mind for every statement I make in this post, so I don’t have to keep writing it out).

There’s something here that caught my eye, though. You said chastity is a kink, nothing more.

Which may be true. For you.

It’s not true for me. For me, it’s a lifestyle. It doesn’t end when sex ends. Its nature isn’t exclusively sexual.

I am not you. I exist as a complete and whole human being, outside of your perception of the world.

My boys exist as whole and complete human beings, outside of your perception. They do not exist as reflections of you.

Presenting personal conclusions as universal truth is problematic.

But also, why did you feel you had to go out of your way to assert that masturbating is healthy?

That’s one of those flagged statements. There’s definitely some entitlement there.

Which, normally, is a great thing. If you haven’t agreed to give up that autonomy, you should feel entitled to do what you want with your body, when and how you want to do it (within reason, you can’t go out and start vigorously masturbating in the middle of Target).

But men interested in chastity have agreed to give up that autonomy. They are no longer entitled to do what they want, when they want. They’ve chosen to give that up.

If you don’t want to give up that autonomy, then don’t. Simple as that.

Also, If you insist on constant oral servitude, worship, obedience to your will, but give him nothing but frustration in return, isn’t this very unfair?

Yep. Welcome to Femdom. Moving on.

Won’t this take a normal man, or at least a stable functioning partner, and make him a slave, weakling, wimp, sissy, etc. – what I mean is less of a man. If you destroy his manhood, than when you want or need the “Man”, to work, to make love, to defend you, If there are times when some semblance of confidence or spine is needed, the “Man” won’t be there anymore.

Well, I mean, of course. We all know that working, defending, having a spine, and being a stable functioning partner are attributes exclusive to men, and what’s more, exclusive to a specific kind of Man™.

We also know that Manhood™ is defined as a narrow set of traits and behaviors and methods of expression, and if a Man™ possesses even one trait or behavior or desire that falls outside of that set, then the entirety of his Manhood™ is completely invalidated.

It’s because masculinity is fragile, and brittle, and external, you see.

Easily broken. Easily taken away.

It’s a finite, shared resource, that must be hoarded, jealously guarded, and protected. Because it’s shared, the mere existence of a slave, weakling, wimp, sissy, etc. threatens the masculinity of all men.

I mean, dude. Do you have any idea how stupid you sound? I’m asking honestly.

Manhood isn’t a concrete, finite thing, mkay. And y’all’s continued insistence that your masculinity is weak enough to be shattered by literally anything outside of your narrow definition makes you look like idiots.

So, because I’m in a good mood, I’ll help you out.

First, broaden your definition of manhood, because dear god, dude. You must know how utterly pathetic the current definition is.

I mean, a man isn’t a Real Man™ if he exhibits all the traits and behaviors you deem acceptable, but also happens to like fruity cocktails?

He’s not a Real Man™ if he is assertive, dominant, protective, and a natural provider, but also happens to like being pegged?

Well what if a man is driven, ambitious, a good provider, a great lover, and protective of his family, but isn’t very confident?

What if a man seems really aggressive and confident, but hits his wife and kids?

What if a man loves being a father and chooses not to take a big promotion because it would require long hours, and he’d rather go to his daughter’s ballet recital and watch his son’s baseball game? Is he not a Real Man™ if he doesn’t financially support his family?

I mean, want me to keep going? The existence of one thing that doesn’t fit your definition is enough to invalidate his entire identity?

Why fight to remove our chains, when we can simply compare their lengths? Why step outside the box when the box has these badass flame decals on it? We men are cigarettes; dangerous, and poisonous, and stupid.

Guante

You see that as a sign of strength?

My god, dude.

And you wonder why women don’t give a shit about you. You wonder why we literally laugh at you when you’re not around.

It’s pathetic. It’s not worthy of my respect.

And as far as making love, what? You think I want a cookie-cutter clone whose idea of “switching things up” is reverse cowgirl?

Sure, I’ll use those guys when I want that particular itch scratched, but I don’t give a shit about them. I don’t want to know anything about them. I don’t even want to know their names.

I don’t care. He’s a dildo with a pulse. I bend over and take my pleasure while he does his little-engine-that-could thing back there, and then I want him to leave.

Why?

Because it’s boring. He is boring.

I can go to any club or bar and find ten guys exactly like him. Unoriginal, interchangeable, and ultimately disposable.

There’s not a single thing he can offer me that I can’t get from a battery.

Now, take Sounder, for example.

True, he can’t bend me over and do his own little-engine-that-could thing. But holy hell, why would I want him to?

I mean, I can make a text message conversation intense enough to fluster him at work. I can change his entire headspace with a handful of sentences. I can see parts of him that no one else has ever seen.

I push him hard, and he trusts me with his body, his mind, his safety, his very identity. He chooses to follow me down paths I never thought I’d be able to explore, and he can let go and enjoy the ride because he trusts that I’ll keep him safe.

And my trust, my faith in him, is absolute. He could tell me the sky is green and I’d believe him.

And the same goes for Kazander.

Kazander is a devoted father and a loving husband. We don’t lie to each other, we have no secrets, and there is nothing we cannot talk about.

We’ve been through good times and hard times. We’ve made mistakes, we’ve hurt each other, we’ve healed each other, and we’re still here. There’s nothing I don’t know about him. There’s no part of him I haven’t seen.

That kind of intimacy, that kind of trust, means something.

Why would I want some grunting caveman when I can have Sounder tied up and trembling, his body open and vulnerable for me?

Why would I want some dudebro’s mediocre spastic thrusting when I can bring Kazander to his knees with nothing but a look, and make him beg me to hurt him?

You can’t get that from a battery.

Now, do Kazander and Sounder fit your definition of a “Real Man?”

No, they don’t.

But I have a sneaking suspicion I don’t fit your definition of a “real woman,” so it makes sense that I wouldn’t be interested in your definition of a Real Man™.

Because Real Men™ are pitiful.

I feel sorry for them. They’re scared, and lonely, and hurting, and dangerous.

But confidence is hot, dude. A man who is confident enough to drink a fruity cocktail or admit that a puppy is cute or cry in public is a hell of a lot hotter than the children running around, too terrified of what Real Men™ might think of them.

A man who can unapologetically admit that he wants to be bent over and fucked like a bitch in heat is a hell of a lot hotter than the scared, repressed… thing… who pushes those desires down beneath a mountain of warped denial, self-hatred, and resentment.

Nah, dude. That kind of emotional constipation may have been okay for our mothers, but only because they didn’t have a choice.

Hell, look at my own parents. My dad was the posterchild for Real Men™.

And because I’ve been told I have the emotional range of a goldfish, we got along, but I never knew what he actually felt for me, and because of that, I got blindsided by a pretty nasty surprise after he died.

And that’s what fatherhood means to me. Emotional emptiness, blank stoicism, and lies.

I had tons of issues with my mom, but you wanna guess how many times she confided to me how lonely it was living with the emotional equivalent of a pet rock?

No emotional intimacy. No emotional vulnerability. It’s all skin-deep, nothing real, nothing true.

The only emotion I’d ever seen him show, in 30 years, was anger.

When my parents found out I wasn’t a virgin, he walked out. My mom said, “he can’t even look at you right now.”

I felt ashamed. Dirty. Like I’d lost value to him. Like I’d done something wrong.

Like I was now less, in his eyes.

My father. The first and primary example I was given of manhood.

But it’s totally exclusively my fault for having to untangle myself from my Daddy issues. Because being raised by an emotionally stunted, egotistical coward is just a totally normal thing. More than that, those lonely, terrified cowards are lauded by people like you.

You think that’s a good thing.

Ugh, no. No one wants to live like that.

But that’s not even all there is to it.

My mom didn’t agree with me being poly. She always had shit to say, until finally, I pointed something out when my daughter was a year or two old.

She kept insisting that the man must be in charge, because that’s “natural” and “right,” and monogamy was the only acceptable lifestyle.

“Mom, it just doesn’t work. Not for me.”

“It worked for me and your dad for 30 years.”

I laughed. “Wait, no, it didn’t. You know it didn’t.”

“We’re still together.” (They were both still alive at this point)

I looked at her. “So you’d want your granddaughter to have a marriage just like yours?”

Silence. And interestingly enough, she never had anything to say about my relationships again.

And I mean, she was far from the only one like her. And does that tell you anything?

My mom thought my dad was a Real Man™. But there was no one she loved more than my daughter, and what was her reaction to the idea of my daughter ending up with a Real Man™?

Even better, want to take a guess at my father-in-law’s reaction to the idea of my daughter dating a Real Man?

I even had to have a conversation with Kazander about how he is and is not allowed to react when the spawn loses her virginity. Wanna take a guess what reaction he has to hide when it comes to the idea of his daughter having sex with a Real Man?

I mean, does that tell you anything? You don’t even like Real Men. You don’t trust them. You don’t want them around. You see them as villains and thieves. You see them as a threat.

Why do you devote so much of yourselves to being something you hate?

We have never wanted that. You decided it was normal and women like my mom just didn’t know any better.

I do know better. And that expression of manhood is pathetic.

It’s small. And weak. And sad.

And lonely, not just for the women you inflict yourselves on, but for you, as well.

I can’t imagine what it must feel like to live so isolated, under all that fear. Feeling like you can’t be who you are for fear of someone thinking you’re less of a man.

No. That’s not what anyone wants.

Not even you.

Long-term chastity seems to make the woman inevitably more dominant and the man inevitably more submissive and pitiful. Is this what was wanted at the outset.

In relationships that employ long-term chastity, the woman is already the more dominant partner. Chastity doesn’t create that, it’s just another way to express it.

I won’t even enter into a relationship with a man unless he’s submissive. You think he’s pitiful, I think he’s more of a man than you’ll ever be.

Different definitions, remember?

You get married with an expectation of happy equality and mutual love and reciprocity, right?

You get married with that expectation. Equality is not something anyone in a relationship with me expects. Happiness, mutual love, and reciprocity, yes. Equality, no.

I am in charge. If you don’t like it, don’t be in a relationship with me. Problem solved.

But if you enter into kink play that you imagine is safe, sane, consensual, and TEMPORARY and wind up being forced into chastity against hiw will isn’t this a breaking of the marriage contract? Is it ethical to do this to a man, even if you slowly indocrinate him into long term chastity? Shouldn’t he have a say, a safeword, a way out short of divorce?

Lying is wrong, regardless of whether you throw BDSM into the mix. Abuse is wrong regardless of whether chastity is involved.

Changing someone’s mindset or behavior is a slow, gradual process that must be discussed beforehand, and a way out, an ability to reverse the effects, must be available as long as possible. It’s also dependent on a willingness in the man.

You can’t just slap a cage on a reluctant man and expect him to willingly allow you to fuck with his head. It doesn’t really work like that. That’s fantasy, not reality.

And a Prince Albert? I hope that no woman would force it on a man, or even suggest it without a serious and honest discussion where the man has total say in the matter.

I mean, if it helps you sleep at night, go ahead and keep hoping that.

FLRs, woman as complete ruler, long tern chastity, forced feminization, cuckolding, they all strike me as cruel and very abusive unless the man really, really, likes it.

… unless the man really, really, likes it.

There you go. Congratulations, you just answered all your own questions. You took the scenic route, but you got there in the end.

I’ve never forced a man to be with me. I’ve never forced a man to do anything he didn’t want to do, outside of previously-agreed upon boundaries, and everyone I play with always has the right to tell me when something is wrong.

Every man who plays with me does it because he wants to. My boys are with me because they want to be with me. Because they really, really like what I do.

You may not like it, and that’s fine, you don’t have to. The world is big enough for us both.

But you’ve got a lot of crap you need to sort out in yourself before you can look at stuff like this with any hope of being able to grasp it.

Chastity and its effects are like calculus, while you’re operating under the assumption that 2+2=3. You’re missing a few pieces here. And you just won’t be able to understand a hefty chunk of any of this until you go back to the basics of interpersonal relationships and fix what you’ve got twisted up.

You’ve got to untangle yourself from all that crap before you can jump into something like chastity.

Tech Issues

So…

Some of you may remember awhile back, when my site went down, and even the tech support guy was like, “I got nothing,” and I halfway fixed it to the point that it functioned and decided, “Meh, that’s good enough.”

Well, it all finally kind of exploded. I’m on a first-name basis with the tech guy at GoDaddy and I’ve had to switch my hosting platform, whatever the hell that means, and oh my god you guys I would literally rather clean the filthiest, shittiest public bathroom in the world than do internet-tech stuff. I just have this seething, irrational hatred for it. It puts me in a shitty mood and drives me up a wall.

So I’ve got the rest of the site fixed, but everything since I switched to the first hosting platform is lost. So everything from the last three years is gone. There’s a chance I can get it back from the hosting site, I’ll have to look into it, but honestly, I’m really, really struggling to see how it’d be worth the effort.

I’m serious, y’all don’t understand how much I hate this shit. I very well might just cut my losses and rewrite the stuff I want to rewrite from the last three years. It’ll depend on how annoying the process is.

But the site is fixed well enough that it functions. There are a couple of other things that I need to do at some point, but I hate doing it and don’t want to do it, so I’m putting it off, because that went so well the first time.

What I’m saying is I make good decisions.

No, in all seriousness, I need to actually finish the damn process this time. And it reset everything on the site, so it reverted back to the way it was three years ago, and I need to tweak the settings and layout and put it all back the way I had it. Which, at least that part isn’t too hard, more just tedious than anything.

Whether I can get the last three years of content back is still kind of up in the air, but that’s not the part I’m super worried about. It won’t really bother me if I can’t get it back, I can just rewrite the important stuff and call it good.

So we’ll see. It should be fun.

Facebook sucks

So I’m actually not all that internet-savvy.  I just have no real interest in it.  Social media is all well and good when I’m bored, but I’m just not all that into it like I had been in the past.

Still, as the blog grows, it occurs to me that I probably need to branch out a bit.  I’ve had a Twitter account for awhile, and started being more active on Facebook, as well.

But as it turns out, Facebook doesn’t allow someone to have more than one Facebook profile, because of reasons that supposedly make sense to someone out there, so my kink profile was shut down.

What’s a girl to do?

It appears that the only option is to create a Facebook page.  But trying to figure out how to keep it separate from my vanilla profile has proven a massive challenge.  I’ve found plenty of tutorials for how to keep my vanilla profile off of the kink page, but can’t find anything for how to keep my kink page off my vanilla profile.

I’ve got family, friends, and kids on my Facebook friends list.  We’re not out to Kazander’s family and friends, we’re not out to all of my friends, and obviously I need to keep the kids on my friends list off the kink page.

I mean, there’s no room for error here.  I absolutely, 100% need to keep the two separate, and there doesn’t seem to exist any cut-and-dry tutorials for how to do that.

I can’t find a single damn thing about it.

To be honest, I’m kind of considering just deleting my vanilla FB account.  I’m hardly ever on it anymore, I have the phone numbers of the 3-ish people on my friends list that I’m actually interested in conversing with (and the 2-ish people I would like to keep conversing with, I can easily get their numbers), and I’m just too much of a misanthrope to pretend to be interested in the lives of people I don’t respect and don’t care about.

Five years ago, I could do that.  I just don’t have the energy or the desire to do it anymore.

So if I choose to delete my vanilla account, obviously that’s not a problem, but I’d rather have it available, even though I hardly use it.  The inlaws will occasionally post cute pics or videos of the spawn while she’s staying with them, some of my vanilla friends post hilarious memes, and if there’s any way I can avoid deleting it, I’d lean more toward that.

But so far, I haven’t found a solution.  It’s annoying AF.  And I don’t have the patience to deal with this for weeks or months.  In all honesty, I’m probably just going to end up deleting the vanilla account.

Because Facebook sucks.