Not Mine

Alright, so fair warning.  I’m a teensy bit buzzed.  I’m not great at not-rambling when I’m stone-cold sober, and I really don’t wanna write this post sober, so just be prepared for a lot of rambling.

Eventually I’ll get to the point.  It’ll be an adventure.

Fair warning though (Part 2) the point is kinda a downer.  I want to make sure you all know, so it’s not like going on a roller coaster and then as you get off, you step in dog shit.

Oh my gawd, and poor Sounder!  He caught the brunt of my drunken ramblings, him and one of my girlfriends who made the mistake of commenting on a drunken Facebook post I wrote (inspired, incidently, by Sounder.  And did you know that wine tastes nasty when you drink it through a straw, because the smell is like this huge part of the wine-drinking experience, and with a straw that interferes with the smell, so you basically just get sad moldy-grape water).


So there’s your science-y lesson for today.  This blog is crazy educational.

Oh and fair warning (Part 3): This has been my brain lately:


So we’ll meander, but we’ll get there.  It’s all about the journey, anyway.

Relax, no one died, although that does remind me of something I want to point out when I get to that point in the story, assuming I remember the damn thing.

If I do, we’ll all be surprised together.

M’kay, so I’m settled down with my wine, I’m currently on my 33rd repeat of Wannabe by Spice Girls as loud as it can go in the headphones (dude, don’t ask, it’s a really long story.  I think.  But it makes me happy, so whatever), I’m that perfect level of “happy drunk,” and I’m going to explain what’s up so that the readers can understand, while being vague to protect people’s privacy.

I have no idea if this’ll work on paper, but it works in my head and Drunk Jen says go for it.

And that bitch knows her shit.  I trust her.  She’s never led me astray.

Except those two times.


What was the second time?

Yeah I know that reference was forced, but I’m drunk and can do what I want.  And my other favorite Force Awakens Han quote, “Okay, how do we blow it up?  There’s always a way to do that,” (it’s funny because that’s usually my Plan A with a lot of things) just wasn’t going to fit.  And I was feeling a Star Wars reference right this moment.

Oh and also keep in mind that I’m primarily telling this from my point of view.  For reasons, there may not be an abundance of the other point of view for awhile, but — Oh Jesus Christ, this is all vague and cryptic as shit.

Fuck that.  New tactic.

Steel is no longer my collared submissive.

Fuck, that’s going to make everything else make so much more sense.  Critical knowledge.  That’s it.  There ya go.

He no longer wears my collar.

We’re done.  We’re over.

Shit, and that’s not helping.

Okay, so there wasn’t a big fight or anything, and I could see this coming months ago, and we both sort of knew it was heading this way for at least the last few weeks.  We talked about what was wrong in the relationship, we talked about this possibility, but we never gave it much thought, because we both instinctively recoiled from the idea.  We didn’t even like thinking about it, much less talking about the possibility of it.

Not being together wasn’t an option.

Until it became the only option.

So what happened?  What did I see back in October that told me this was coming?

In short, the distance.  The distance became too great of an obstacle to overcome.

No, that’s not right.  That’s not the right wording, anyway.

We live 2500 miles apart.  And we both felt that distance, every second of every day.  The times that we were able to be together were amazing, and we always loved talking to each other over the phone and Skype, but it wasn’t enough.

I had been getting increasingly frustrated with the status quo.  It was quickly becoming clear that this wasn’t working for either of us.

And there is nothing I can use, drawing from my own experience, to compare to the frustration, helplessness, and anger that I felt when I saw him hurting, saw him needing me, and I was completely powerless to help him.

I don’t do powerless well.  And I started becoming restless.  In the last couple of weeks, it was more than clear to me what needed to happen.  But my whole soul recoiled against it so completely, I honestly didn’t know if I had the willpower to actually do it, instead of selfishly keeping him under my thumb from 2500 miles away.

It was killing him, and the idea of letting him go was so repulsive to me, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it to keep from hurting him more.

I didn’t know if I could do it, and I didn’t know what to do about that.  How do you tell the man who is desperate for you, the man who loves you, the man you adores you and worships you, that you have to let him go?  How does that conversation even start?

The possibility occurs to me that maybe I wouldn’t have had the strength to do it on my own.

The probability occurs to me that maybe I wouldn’t have had the strength to do it on my own.

There’s not a lot on this planet that gets to me, there’s not a lot that hits hard enough to knock me off balance, there’s not a lot that can reach deep enough to hurt me.

Because I’m a hypocrite.  As I tear down the walls surrounding my subs’ minds, I use what I learn from them, I use what I learn from their coping mechanisms and their defense mechanisms to make mine stronger.

He learned how to reach me.  I’ll never forget the first time we met, after I’d collared him for a couple months, and he said, “Your expression is really hard to read.  Harder than I expected.”

As it turns out, he didn’t need it.  He picked up things I was so sure no one could see.  He threw me off balance by seeing through these disguises I meticulously put together.

Disguises that were strong enough to convince literally everyone else in my entire adult life.

Even B, the man who saved me, the first man who could reach me, couldn’t read me the way Steel can.  When I took a knife to my arm, leaving gashes that should’ve had stitches, with scars that are still significantly raised to this day, 12 years later, I had dinner at his house the next day, and he had no idea anything was wrong, until his son, my best friend at the time, noticed them under my sleeve and called attention to them.

I was comfortable in my solitude.  It was easy.  It was simple.  I was more than confident in my ability to keep everyone fooled, keep everyone at a distance.  Even when I showed vulnerability, it was a conscious choice, done only to a certain person, in a private conversation.  No one else is privy to that.

I could keep everyone at arms’ length, and I’d gotten so good at it, I didn’t even have to think about it anymore.

Until my daughter’s fourth birthday party.  I don’t even remember what was wrong.  I was dealing with my inlaws, and there was no alcohol at the party, so I’m sure that had something to do with it.  But I remember I was talking to him on the phone, standing in the inlaws’ dining room, and he asked one innocent question, and I froze.

How did he know that?

He shouldn’t have known that.

He threw me off balance, he opened himself up to me, and in taking control of him, I opened myself up, too, to a degree that I wasn’t used to, wasn’t comfortable with.

And in the end, no, I couldn’t give him the depth he asked for.  That depth, that darkness, and the way people will react to seeing it firsthand, is the only thing on this planet that scares me.  That fear was too familiar, too comfortable, to give up, even for him.

I compromised, promising that when we were together physically, we would revisit the topic, and I would give him what he asked for.

And I meant it.  It scares me enough that even thinking about it, even thinking about him learning what’s there, thinking about the look on his face as he realizes the full extent of what I am, is enough to make my fingers shake, my throat feel tight, and tears prick the backs of my eyes.

But I would’ve done it, for him.  Somehow, haltingly, with a lot of drinks, and probably a panic attack or two thrown in for good measure, I would’ve done it.

He broke through my walls, he even found a way, the cunning bastard that he is, to break through them even as I threw more back up.  When I became worried that he’d get past my walls, my instinct was to pull away.  But somehow, I think without even consciously realizing it, he recognized that, and opened himself even more, gave even more of himself to me, made himself even more vulnerable, and it kept me from freaking out.

He figured it out, he reached me, and he’s one of a very few who are alive today who have the power to hurt me.

And I knew I was hurting him.  Just by being with him, I was hurting him.

But was I strong enough to do what needed to be done?  Was I strong enough to let him go?

But then, as has happened eerily often, the Universe intervened, finally pushing Steel to the point that he acknowledged that this isn’t working.

There’s something you have to understand about Steel.  He’s a Capricorn, through and through.  He rolls his eyes at this stuff, and a bunch of my readers might, as well, but that’s alright, I’m drunk and my tongue is numb, so I’m going to write about what I want to write about.

And for some reason, that string of logic makes perfect sense right now.

So I always have high expectations of my subs.  There have been three cases, however, in which the sub’s expectations of himself have exceeded even my high expectations of him.

I have no idea if that sentence makes sense to sober people.  Three subs have had higher expectations of themselves than I have had of them.

Two of those are the two Capricorns I owned when I woke up this morning.

But add a lot of distance, over a period of more than a year, to a sub who opened himself up early on to a phenomenal degree, and who constantly expects the best of himself, sometimes to maybe an unrealistic degree, and his struggle to see the value he has in my life, and it’s not pretty.

When the distance first started really getting to him, it was hard to watch, and a million times harder for him to feel.  He felt guilty for letting the distance get to him.  He put blame on himself for the fact that he needed me there with him, and I wasn’t there.  We talked about different solutions to the problem, but each one simply started that spiral over again.  He felt guilty because it seemed like I wasn’t enough for him.  And he felt like he was failing me.

And I watched this happen, I saw him start those cycles, and man, sometimes I just saw red.

I wasn’t angry at him, I was never angry with him.  But I was furious with the miles that separated us, and the very many things keeping us apart.

Because this cycle is one that I know, and one that I can fix, so easily, if I was just there.

I could take all of that weight off his shoulders, I could give him room to breathe, I could help him find the balance that our relationship had caused him to lose, if I was just there with him.

God damn it, I could’ve fixed this, if I was just fucking there.

I hated knowing that he was hurting, needing me, and there was not a fucking thing I could do.  I know I became very aware of my tone of voice when talking to him on the phone.  I didn’t ever want him to think that I was frustrated with him.  But he can read me like no one else can, from 2500 miles away, and he felt my frustration, which did nothing but add to his own.

It wasn’t fucking fair!

*Regains composure*

But life isn’t fair, and the fact of the matter is we reached a point where the status quo was no longer an acceptable option.  And as much as I love and adore him, moving to where he lives is not an option, for a great number of reasons I’m not going to get into.

At this point in his life, moving here is not an option for him.

That left us with one option.  We both knew it, and neither of us could do it on our own.  I don’t know if I would’ve been able to let him go, on my own, even though it was for his own good, even though being mine, feeling that distance, killed him a little more each day.

I don’t know if I’m that selfless.  I don’t know if I’m that strong.

But somehow, as he always does, he filled those holes in my armor with his own.  And it happened quickly and smoothly.

Honestly, I remember very, very little of the conversation, and I’m totally fine with remembering very, very little of the conversation.

I remember one moment.  I don’t remember what, exactly he said, but he acknowledged that this wasn’t working.  It was really the first time I’d heard him make that acknowledgement, directly and out loud.

And that’s what I needed.  That was enough to remind me that it’s my job to take care of him for as long as he’s mine, and that it’s my job to help him untangle himself from me once he’s no longer mine.

It reminded me that he was fucking hurting, because of me, and I owed this to him, God damn it.  He’d suffered for me, suffered for my absence, for a year and a half.  He took all of it, he gave me all of himself, even to his own detriment, even when he knew it would just hurt him more, even when he was afraid of how I’d react, even when he was afraid I would judge him, and he opened himself up to the influence I greedily, perhaps recklessly, presented.

It was so intense, in the beginning.  So many things went so perfectly right, the entire God damned motherfucking Universe came together at exactly the way we needed it to, it was like un-fucking-real.

There were things that should’ve been red flags, but weren’t.  We both knew we were falling too hard, too fast, for someone we knew very, very little about.  Neither of us are particularly emotional.  Neither of us are particularly open or talkative about our emotions.  This wasn’t like us.  And neither of us were blind to the fact that there were 2500 miles separating us.

I told him once, very early on, “Let’s just enjoy each other now.”

And we did.

He opened himself up, to a level that still amazes me, even now, and laid himself out for me to see.  He pushed himself to give me more, and every shred of control he offered up, I took eagerly, wanting still more.

It was new territory for both of us.  Neither of us were big on long-distance relationships, neither of us had really had one before.  And his willingness to open himself up drove me to take him deeper, deeper, without thinking of the effect it would have on a sub who isn’t physically here, with me.

I realized far too late my mistake, when his vanilla life started faltering because he was so deep in the headspace I just instinctually put him in.

We both acknowledged that it couldn’t continue, and he pulled back for a couple of weeks, giving himself time to regain his balance.  That bothered him.  I told him, “Take all the time you need.  I’m not going anywhere.  I’ll be right here when you get back.”

And he did.  And when he came back, things were smoother.  But it didn’t take long for me to realize the damage had already been done.

And yes, the very thing I would’ve called a blessing if he were here became a curse.  I’d already gone too deep in his mind, and I wasn’t there with him to guide him and steady him.

I thought I could counter it by holding back, by holding him back, and for awhile, that worked.

But it worked like a single strip of duct tape holding a skyscraper together.  It was a fragile fix, that wouldn’t last long.  And one night last October, as we were talking on the phone, his voice coming through the speakers of my car (I even remember what street I was on), it really hit me.

This isn’t going to work.  I can’t keep him.

But no, that’s just pessimistic bullshit, and I’m an optimistic person.  We can make this work.  I am a very firm believer in the idea that there is always a solution to a problem.

We had a problem.  By its very nature, the problem must have a solution.  We just needed to find it.

Months passed, we tried different things, and none of them worked.  And the realist in me kept interrupting the Little-Engine-That-Could-like stubborn singlemindedness my inner optimist kept spouting.

We can do this.  We can do this.  I can fix this.  I can fix this.

It’s not working.  It’s not working.  You’re hurting him.  You’re hurting him.

No, but letting him go would hurt him so much more.

Yeah, that’s a great reason to keep actively causing him pain every time you talk to him.  By all means, keep doing that.

Most of this, Steel didn’t know until now.  He’s learning it the same way you are, and that’s by design.

I never told him.  I never attempted to keep it from him, but I never told him.  Partly because that’s not my nature, but also because I knew I could handle it, and I knew telling him would do nothing but add to a burden that I’d already made too heavy.

I never needed Steel the way he needed me.  I never needed reassurance, I never needed to feel him there with me, the way he needed to feel me there with him.

Don’t get me wrong.  I would actually, legitimately consider cutting off my left tit, one of my two favorite parts of my body, just for half an hour with him curled up in my lap.  Like, I’m serious.  They have stuff for mastectomies, they have breast forms and all that, and my tits are heavy enough to make back pain a daily thing.  I could make that work.

Just half an hour with him right now.  I wouldn’t even play with him.  Not intense play, anyway.

But no, I never needed him the way he needed me.  I knew I could handle the pain of missing him, I knew I could handle the anger and the frustration, and yes, even the doubt.

I never hid it from him, but I never told him because I knew that knowing this would’ve hurt him more, as I know reading it is painful to him now.  He’s protective of me, and I knew he’d instinctively want to protect me from it.  Without any conscious thought, he’d try to take it on himself, he’d heap just another expectation on top of the pile already on his shoulders, because he’d rather collapse under the weight than do something he thought might hurt, or burden me.

And no, I wasn’t going to let him do that.  He heaped the blame on himself, but the cold, hard, unemotional, objective facts are that I created this.

Knowing the extent of how badly I was hurting would’ve devastated him, and he would’ve felt guilty for being the cause of my pain.

And I know that because I felt guilty for being the cause of his pain.

And no, I wasn’t going to let him take that on himself.  That wasn’t his burden to bear.  It was mine, and I created it, in the very beginning, by urging him to dive in with me, even when he hesitated.

“Let’s just enjoy each other for now.”

With no thought, no plan, for the future.  I took him deep, I took him dark, without considering the variable of such a large distance, and the effect it would have on him.

And he’s the one who suffered for my recklessness.

Things remaining as they were wasn’t an option.  Me moving there wasn’t an option.  Him moving here wasn’t an option.

Staying together wasn’t an option.

And he somehow knew, without even realizing it, exactly what to say to remind me that I’m a fucking Dominant, and he gave himself to me openly, without reservation, without limit, trusting that I would take care of him.  Just a comment made, almost in passing, was enough to remind me what was at stake.

His mental and emotional health were at stake.  Our relationship was at stake.  Our future was at stake.  If we’d tried to stay together, the pain and frustration would build, and would turn to resentment.  That resentment would turn in on each other, and would destroy us irreparably.

We have no idea what the future holds.  Maybe six months, a year, two years from now, he’ll have the chance to move here.  If we’re friendly, if we end the relationship on good terms, there’s hope for a future.  But if he moves here six months from now, and we’ve stubbornly stayed together to the point that we’ve grown to resent each other, then the distance won’t matter.

To protect him, to protect us, I had to let him go.  So when he said the words, haltingly, hesitantly, reluctantly, I confirmed them.

I told him that yes, I would take my collar from him (I didn’t actually say those words to him.  I couldn’t.

And writing them now is the third most painful thing I’ve done in my life.  That was something I was not expecting, and was not prepared for.

Fucking hell.

I would release him.  Hearing my confirmation made him hesitate, and I hesitated with him, my strength faltering.  He suggested a trial, and for a moment, I ran with that, suggesting a set period.  But then I remembered who the fuck I am, and who the fuck was on the other end of the line, needing me to be strong enough to let him go.

No.  You’re not going to hurt him anymore.  You’ve done enough.

“It’s the right thing to do,” I told him.  “This isn’t working.”  And God, I hope I sounded more sure of myself to him than I did to myself.

I didn’t.  I know I didn’t.  And I heard it in his silence on the other end, as we both tried to think of something to say.

The rest of the conversation is honestly a blur.  I remember hearing his voice, I remember hearing the pain and the guilt there, I remember hearing the resolve and the strength there, but I don’t remember what he said.

Later, we had the chance to continue, without interruptions.  And that was much better.  We’d both had the chance to process a bit.

And I know this will sound strange (and surprise!  This is what I wasn’t sure I’d remember), but it almost reminded me of a wake.  The conversation before that had been the death.  Painful, with both of us overwhelmed by the loss of this strong, incredible thing we had.

The conversation tonight was like the wake.  The pain was still fresh, but the focus was more on the memories, what brought us together, the things we love about each other.  It was a good way to have closure.

It’s not going to be easy.  I told him we needed some separation.  We needed a few days without communication, so he could start the process of untangling himself from me.

There will be things that will be painful.  For example, the first rule I gave him was that he could not use my first name.  He called me Ma’am.  It was something I loved hearing from him as much as he loved saying it.

The first time he calls me Jen, will hurt.  The first time I read it or hear it will hurt.

A great many things are going to hurt.

But I am not afraid of pain, and I don’t attempt to avoid it, and I don’t pretend I don’t feel it.  It won’t last forever.  And I’ll help him get through it, I’ll steady him if he falters, I’ll support him until he can stand on his own, completely independent of my influence.

And his pain will fade as he distances himself from me.  It’s something he’s reluctant to do, but I will push him along if I need to.  He needs to distance himself from me.  He needs to untangle his mind from me.

Which he will.  He won’t like it but he’ll do it.  He has the strength to do it, and he is capable, once he achieves a level of distance from me, of compartmentalizing and keeping himself focused on the task at hand.

He’ll get back to neutral soon.

But he may be a bit quiet on his blog for awhile.  He asked me if I would write this post, the post we were both dreading, and I told him of course I would.  It was something I was intending to do anyway.  It was my idea to come out on the blog, even though he would’ve preferred to keep it quiet.  He obeyed me, he trusted me, he gave himself to me.  Of course I’m the one writing this.

And I’m the one letting him go.

Because I can handle it.  And I owe it to him; a man I truly love, admire, and cherish.

Yes, it’s the right thing to do.  I know that.  He knows that.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Lunch date with “friends.”

Do you have any of those friends that you used to be so fucking tight with, and you just adored, but then as you got older, you drifted apart to the point that you really don’t have anything in common anymore, and you can’t even really stand each other’s company, but you remain friends anyway?

You know, the kind you go without seeing for months and months, and then you start to miss them, and all the cool shit you did back in the day, and their many, many, many faults start to seem smaller in the unique rosy light of nostalgia, and you think to yourself, “God, I miss them.  Why don’t we hang out anymore?” so you arrange a hangout, and ten minutes into the hangout, you think to yourself, “Oh yeah, this is why we don’t fucking hang out anymore.  Because they’re fucking idiots.  Why can I never remember what colossal idiots they are?”

Yeah, that happened today, at a lunch date with two friends, who I’ll call, for reasons that will become apparent, Feminazi and Christian.

But first, some info on my attitude towards monogamy, and idiots in general.

I’m not a fan of monogamy.  The majority of people in my life, even the muggles, are aware of my attitude toward monogamy, and toward its most vocal supporters.

It’s like with veganism.  I don’t have a problem with veganism.  I don’t have a problem with many vegans.  Not my thing, but it’s cool.  People like it, let them do whatever makes them happy.

What I have a problem with are idiots.  Like the idiots who try to feed their pets (carnivores, such as dogs and cats) a vegan diet.  The idiots who take every opportunity to tell you how awesome it is being vegan.  The idiots who loudly judge you for eating meat. You know the type.

Those idiots are not exclusive to veganism.  They exist in every area, and monogamy is no different.

If, when you find out I’m poly, your response is to scoff and say, “Well your relationships just won’t last,” I want you to know I think you’re an idiot.  Like, a big one.

Interestingly enough, now that I think about it, the vast majority of the people who have said this to me were single at the time.  But what I really love is when people who are divorced say it to me.  Especially the friend who said it to me today.

The friend who, as it happens, is literally on Husband Number 4.

“Oh wow, really?  You’re obviously the world’s foremost expert on how to make relationships work.  Please, tell me more about how you made your marriage(s) work.”

It’s fun when I get to let my inner spiteful, petty bitch out to play.  And if you get on my nerves enough, I let the petty bitch loose and just sit back and enjoy the show.

I’m not afraid to burn bridges, y’all.  And actually, I burned one pretty spectacularly here recently with Red.  And it was satisfying as fuck, let me tell you.  After months of him toeing that line between loveable asshole and straight-up asshole, he finally pushed me past my breaking point.

I fight dirty when you push me past my breaking point, and I hit him with every low blow I could think of (and I’m a very creative individual.  There’s not a lot I don’t think of).

I’m serious, I doused the fucking thing with rocket fuel and took a flamethrower to it.  It was an explosion that would’ve made Michael Bay jealous as fuck.  No one can make shit blow up the way I can (figuratively, anyway).

Push me, motherfucker.  See what happens when I lose my temper.  I dare you.

I inherited my dad’s psychotic temper, with my mom’s ability to just tear people the fuck down.  Combine that with my emotional self control and the fact that I never say anything I don’t mean, and it’s one hell of a combustible combination.  When I decide to burn a bridge, it’s not a decision I’ve come to lightly, so I don’t regret it, and I will make the biggest explosion I can.

I will fuck a motherfucker up.

Red underestimated my ability to do that.  And he really shouldn’t have, he knows that now.  I know way too much about him.  I know what he takes pride in.  I know what his insecurities are.  I know what his fears and his dreams are.  All of that shit becomes a weapon that I use to make grown men cry.

Manipulating someone’s thoughts, feelings, and headspace is what I do.  And I’m very, very good at what I do.  Nothing is off limits once I decide to burn a bridge.  Nothing.

Needless to say, he doesn’t like me anymore.  Needless to say, I’m totally fine with him not liking me anymore.

But that’s not what this post is about.  This post is about relationships.  My relationships.

Because monogamy may work for you.  It works for a lot of people.  It doesn’t work for me.  And take my current and previous relationships as an example.  My first marriage, which was monogamous, ended in divorce (granted, monogamy wasn’t what ended it.  But it sure as hell didn’t help).

My second marriage, which is poly, has already lasted longer than my first.  Hell, my relationships with both Steel and Sounder have already lasted longer than my first marriage.  It works.  Despite all the people telling me it won’t, despite all the people wanting me to fail, because if I succeed, then somehow that means that their way isn’t the only way, and it actually is possible to have healthy, happy, stable relationships that don’t conform to the societally accepted norm.

Now, I understand my privilege is showing, and all of my gay readers are probably rolling their eyes.  They’ve only been dealing with the same thing since…. Oh I dunno, how long ago was the Bible written?  Somewhere around there.  I’m probably not going to be beaten to death in a back alley for having poly relationships.  Judge-y looks and snide comments by bored soccer moms and lonely single people are about all I’m going to get.

And I don’t know if any of you are aware of this, but I’m just a teensy bit on the argumentative side.  Go ahead.  Try me.  Say your snide comments and open that door right up.

What’s really hilarious is that the kinda-sorta-friend of mine, recently a born-again Christian, and I had lunch with another friend, a psycho-liberal feminazi.

Of course Christian is as annoying and idiotic as you’d expect the average born-again Christian to be.  There’s really no surprise there.  Two-dimensional and flat, there’s really not much to her personality anymore.  She used to be entertaining as fuck to be around.  Now, she just judgmental and preachy.  Add to this the fact that I’m Catholic, and it’s like a requirement for all non-Catholic Christians to hate Catholics (I think it says so somewhere in their Bible.  Because theirs is different from ours.  Quick, someone ask a born-again Christian why the Catholic Bible is different.  The hipocrisy is strong with the padawan), and the conversation gets annoying fast.

But she’s easy enough to deal with on her own.  Mostly because she actually knows very little about Christianity, and the history of Christianity, and why we do what we do, and why we believe what we believe, and she’s never actually read the entire Bible (Catholic or otherwise), and I mean really, she just makes it too easy.  Not even worth rambling about, really.

Now, the feminazi is a bit different, mostly because she’s a walking encyclopedia for male-on-female crimes.  Do you want to know how many women were raped in Chicago in June 2014?  She fucking knows that shit.  Want to know how many CEOs were women in New York in 2015?  She fucking knows that shit.  Want to know how many action movies pass that… whatever that test is, that is supposed to show whether a movie is sexist or not, I absolutely refuse to look up the name of it?  Yeah, she knows that shit.

Oh, and quick rant about that damn test.  Action movies are generally geared towards men, and are marketed towards men, for literally one reason, and it’s not to be sexist.  That reason is because a business owner, looking to make a profit on an action movie, will fail if they market it exclusively to women.  I’m a feminist, m’kay.  If I owned a movie studio that was going to make an action movie, and I looked at the data objectively, I would have to accept the fact that women are not my target audience, and I have a goddamn business to run.

I know that people don’t watch movies for social commentary, unless that’s the point of the goddamn movie.  They watch to be entertained.  Shallow, attractive characters are entertaining.

Women bitch about it all the time, and yes, they may be justified.  But you’re not going to change anything by bitching about it.  You’re going to change it with your goddamn wallet.  Show that with hard data.

We did it with a comedy, and the studio took notice.  It’s what they did/are doing with another movie that was geared toward women, and blew past expectations.  Maybe you heard of it, Trainwreck.  That one did great, because people, men and women, paid to see it.  Women loved it.  Women went to see it in the theater.  Women showed the business owners that yes, this is a good fucking idea, and they should give us more of it.

But when given the opportunity with an action movie, we were too busy bitching about Star Wars being sexist or some shit to care.

The new Ghostbusters flopped, for a number of reasons, but you want to know the biggest reason it flopped?  Because no one paid to go see it.  And because no one paid to go see it, they’re not doing the sequel(s), and no one is going to rush to do another movie like it.  Yeah, you can kiss the idea of an action movie with an all-female cast goodbye for a few fucking years, at the very least.  You blew it.

Even if it sucked for other reasons (which it did), if enough people had shown interest in an action movie with an all-female cast (and by people, I mean you, ladies), then the studio, which is a business with the goal of creating a marketable product and earning a profit off said product, would likely have taken a closer look at what mistakes were made and how to fix them, so that they would have a more marketable, more profitable product.

It doesn’t even matter what men think/thought of the movie.  Die-hard male fans of the original were going to be skeptical of a reboot with an all-female cast, anyway.  It wasn’t geared to them, because most of them just weren’t going to be interested.  It was geared to us.  And we proved that marketing action movies primarily to us doesn’t make good business sense.  The studio isn’t going to forget that 70 million dollar loss anytime soon.


Oh, but you want to know a movie that did so well, it not only spawned an originally-unplanned sequel, but a live national tour and a fucking Broadway musical?

Magic Mike.

Magic.  Fucking.  Mike.

But wait, that’s not sexist because it’s men who are naked and are attractive, shallow characters (and don’t tell me they’re not shallow.  After I found out they were planning a national tour, I decided to sit down and find out what all the fuss is about.  Yeah, all of them are two-dimensional, shallow characters lacking any real depth or complexity).

Yeah, I don’t want to hear you bitch about how Pick-a-Movie is “sexist.”  Your wallets speak louder than your words.  And yeah, your wallets have spoken.  Don’t like it?  Fucking change it.  Stop bitching about the movie industry being sexist and fucking change it.

When movies like The Ghostbusters start making more money than Magic Mike or Sex in the City, and the movie industry still caters action movies exclusively to men, then I’ll be willing to listen to a damn word you have to say about that stupid test.  Until then, I’m just not interested.

I don’t fucking care.

Feminazi is the reigning queen of bitching-about-shit-but-not-getting-off-her-ass-to-do-a-damn-thing-about-it.  Because then she’d have nothing to bitch about.  And then she’d starve, because bitching is her primary form of sustenance.

She’s always annoying when she gets on her feminazi, down-with-the-Patriarchy, all-men-are-sexist rants, and I’ve gotten pretty good at telling her to shut the fuck up (or just tuning her out), but since the election, she’s gotten just impossible to be around.

No you guys, I’m serious.  She spent half the time at lunch criticizing the waiter because he said, “Good afternoon, ladies.”

She said that calling us “ladies” was sexist.  I didn’t pay enough attention to her to figure out why.  I was too busy imagining what the waiter would look like naked, tied up, sprawled out across my lap with a red, well-paddled ass.

Again, normally, I tell her to shut up, or I tune her out.  But now that the other one is a super-conservative, born-again Christian, it’s actually entertaining getting the three of us together.

The two of them argue about everything.  And 99% of the time, it’s annoying as fuck.  Like, to the point that I really don’t understand why I keep agreeing to hang out with them.

But when they start talking about me, it’s wildly amusing.

Because here’s the thing.  I’m a Dominant, poly, bisexual woman.  I run all of my relationships, and I have relationships outside my marriage.  Feminazi loves this trait in me.  Christian hates it.  She says (and I’m not making this shit up) that I’m “desecrating the sanctity of marriage.”

Bitch is on her fourth goddamn marriage.  It’s great.

So anyway, Christian always inevitably brings up my relationships, usually with a snide sort of, “So, Jen.  How is your husband doing?  Have you spent much time with him lately?  You know, since he has to share you with so many other people?”

And she says this in front of my kid, which is hilarious because she thinks a) I keep the fact that I’m poly from my kid (which I don’t), and b) I won’t answer frankly and honestly in front of my kid (do you have any idea the shit my kid has heard?  This is nothing.  And besides, she’s always too busy playing on my phone to hear a damn word that’s being said.  Which is why I only let her play on my phone in certain situations.  It frees me up to say shit I couldn’t really say if she was paying attention).

Today, I replied with, “Actually yeah, I spent some time fucking him in the ass with a strapon last night.”

The look on her face was priceless.  The look on Feminazi’s face was priceless.

After this point, with these two idiots, I don’t have to say another word.  Feminazi just can’t resist “jumping to my rescue” and defending me to Christian.


The conversation always inevitably turns to the fact that I’m a stay-at-home mom.  Which Christian loves.  And Feminazi hates.

I’m serious, she always has something to say about it.  Like I’m single-handedly going to lose women the right to vote or some shit.  She and I have had tons of arguments about it, and she’s a very, very slow learner, but she eventually figured out that it’s a bad idea to start arguments with me, so she generally keeps her mouth shut about it.

Especially since her 7-year-old son is completely impossible to be around.  Like, you literally cannot take that little shit to a restaurant.  Or a doctor’s office.  Or anywhere in public.  He’s a fucking terror.  And whenever she can’t get a sitter, and gets stuck with him, she spends literally the entire time scolding him, and my kid and I just look at each other, and we’re both thinking, “Would you take a look at this little shithead, and his idiot mother?”

Okay, maybe those aren’t her exact thoughts, but judging by the things she’s said about him and Feminazi in the car on the way home, it’s pretty damn close, okay?  The kid is a fucking nightmare.

Unless, interestingly (and satisfyingly) enough, I babysit him.  He’s a fucking angel when he’s with me and his mother isn’t around.  I’m serious, I’ve actually videotaped him playing nicely and quietly with my kid, just to rub it in his mom’s face.

And she can’t understand why he’s such an asshole to her.

I’ve tried repeatedly to tell her that a big part of it is that she thinks he’s going to grow up to be a rapist, and kids pick up on that shit, and it kinda fucks with them hard.  And the other reason is she’s just a shitty parent.  She shoves him off on the cheapest, crappiest, most overcrowded daycare she could find, and then gives him no attention or structure when she gets home from work.  Because she’s too tired from her job.  The poor dear.

But no, that’s fine.  Her financial security is more important to her than her child’s mental and emotional well-being.  He’s going to end up in prison, or a sociopath, or, in the best-case scenario, with major, crippling intimacy issues, but she can afford to get her hair done as often as she wants.  Yay, go her.  She should be so proud.

So anyway, she gives me shit for staying home to raise and educate my daughter, I give her shit for actively destroying any chance her son will ever have at a normal adult life.  Give and take, you know?

And eventually she learned to just shut the fuck up.

Unless we’re with Christian, who can never resist bringing it up.  And once she does, Feminazi can never resist shitting on it.

But I don’t knock her down when Christian is around.  I don’t say a damn thing.  Because Christian will always jump to my defense, talking about how I’m doing “the Lord’s work” by raising my child.  And they’ll argue about it for awhile, with Christian passionately defending me and my family values.

Until the conversation turns back to me being poly, and having a number of successful poly relationships.  Then both their tunes change, and Christian starts attacking me for desecrating the sanctity of marriage and emasculating my husband (oh she has no fucking idea), while Feminazi passionately defends me for being a strong woman who breaks the bonds of traditional female roles.

And occasionally, if I’m bored (which I usually am, hanging around with such two-dimensional people), I’ll keep it interesting, if say they’re arguing about me being poly, and Feminazi looks like she’s winning the argument, by switching it back up and turning the conversation back to me being a stay-at-home mom.

It’s hilarious, it really is.  And at the end of the hangout, I still can’t figure out why I’m still friends with them, when I can’t stand either of them as human beings, and the only entertaining part of hanging out with them is pitting the two of them against each other (I never claimed I wasn’t a manipulative bitch, okay?) and watching them get more and more heated over someone else’s fucking life.

Like, come on, that’s just funny.  They just get so passionate about the decisions I make in my life, that in no way affect them.  It’s great.

Eventually, though, I’m going to remember why I don’t like hanging out with them, and hopefully I won’t repeat the same bullshit over again six months from now.  But I’m not always the quickest learner, so we’ll have to wait and see how that goes.  Maybe now that I’ve written a post about it, the next time I start thinking to myself, “Man, I miss Feminazi and Christian.  We used to have so much fun together.  Why don’t we hang out anymore?” I can look back to this post and think, “Oh yeah, that’s why.  Because I can’t stand the psycho bitches.”

Hopefully.  We’ll see.


I’m not the right person to ask

… pretty much any relationship question, really.

Kazander and I were in the living room.  I was reading and he was re-watching an old show he likes, Sons of Anarchy (possible minor spoilers ahead, if you care about that sort of thing).  He was watching the scene in which Jax is cheating on Tara with a porn star.  Tara walks in to the clubhouse, and asks Jax’s best friend, Opie, if Jax is there.  Opie lies and tells Tara that Jax isn’t there.  So Tara walks into the back, to find Jax and the girl in bed together.

Kazander paused the show, turned to me, and said, “Would you be mad?  If you were Tara, I mean?”

“If you cheated on me?  Uh, yeah.”

“No, would you be mad at Opie?”

“Of course I would.  He lied.”

“But that’s been his best friend basically since birth.”

“I don’t care.  I’d be done with him.”

“So you’d forgive me, but be mad at him?”

“I never said I’d forgive you.”

“Assuming you did.  Assuming you’d forgive me, would you forgive him?”

“I don’t think I’m the right person to ask.”

“Well, let’s use me and Red.  Red is one of my best friends, and you two are cool.  If Red lied to protect me, would you forgive him?”


“That’s something I never understood about women.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’d forgive me, but you’d hold it against him?”

I laughed.  “I wouldn’t forgive you.”

He paused.  “You wouldn’t?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You wouldn’t forgive me?”

I put my book down and turned to face him.  “I have let you fuck another woman in my bed.  More than once.  And I’ll let you do it again.  Just as I would with Steel and Sounder, and anyone else I own.  If, after I let you do that, you still need to go behind my back and cheat on me, there are more problems in our relationship than can be fixed.”

He paused again.  “Yeah, that’s a good point.  You’re not the right one to ask.”

I’m polyamorous, y’all.  I have no problem with any of my subs playing with others.  I don’t even mind them having other romantic relationships, under the right circumstances (such as Kazander and his ex-girlfriend).  At the end of the day, I know they’re mine, and I know they love me, just as they know I love them.

But honesty is the most important thing.  And to me, it’s the difference between polyamory and cheating.  If you want to go fuck a porn star, go fuck her.  Knock yourself out.  Have fun.  But the moment you try to hide it from me, you cross a line that can’t be uncrossed.

More than once, Kazander has asked me questions like this, and then realized I’m the wrong person to ask.  When it comes to relationships, I’m an easy person to figure out.  Don’t lie to me.  Don’t hide from me.  And I won’t lie or hide from you.

Fun homework assignment

So brutally and mercilessly humiliating Sounder is one of my favorite pastimes.  Like, it’s tons of fun.

Like, obscene amounts of fun.

And I got to thinking about how common it is among some circles for men to name their junk.

So, in a totally natural thought progression, I came to the conclusion (as one does) that Sounder’s clit needs a name.  Because he’s a greedy, eager, slutty whore.

Of course, I can always make things worse.


*Evil grin*

Now, I knew he wouldn’t half-ass this assignment, but all the same, I decided it would be fun to give him some wonderful motivation.


*Evil, maniacal laughter*

I couldn’t wait to see what he’d come up with.

Of course, he didn’t disappoint.  And he actually put quite a bit of thought into it.  He figured there were two different paths he could take.  He could go with something “cutesie,” like the example I gave him, or he could go with something remarkably slutty.

Wanna take a guess as to which path my darling cockslut took?  Since he’s such a slutty little sissy?

Did you guess slutty?  Because he totally went with slutty.

Is it bad that I was weirdly proud to hear a form of my name, and the name my mom still calls me, “Jenny,” on that list?

And want to take a guess which name he went with?  Go ahead, guess.

Tammy Lynn.

Squee!!!  I love it!!

Although now that I think about it…


As a side note, you guys have no idea how much How I Met Your Mother influenced my life.

And, while they’re talking specifically about “ly” as opposed to “li,” I think it applies to any other name that traditionally ends in y.

Because you can’t convince me “Jenni” doesn’t look dirtier than “Jenny.”

The same holds true with Tammy and Tammi.

I definitely like Tammi Lynn better.  It’s a very feminine, fitting, humiliating name for Sounder’s little clit.

Merry early Christmas to me

Christmas came early.

So my precious Thunderstick died, and the timing could not have been worse.  But after convincing myself that setting the bed on fire is a bad idea, I shrugged and said, “Oh well.”

Things have been tight because we literally just dropped almost a thousand dollars on Christmas presents for the family, and since the thing is a tad pricey, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get another one until January.

I was devastated, and quite vocal about my devastation, but life goes on, right?  It was my normal habit of whining and bitching for ten minutes (okay, maybe 15 minutes), then shrugging and moving on with my life.

Until I mentioned it to star.  She immediately offered to buy me a new one, asking for the brand name, and I immediately thanked her for the offer and declined, pointing out that I’d be able to get one next month.

Then she said:


The adorable, clever little brat…

And I have to say, no one has ever gotten me like that.  She figured it out, though.  I couldn’t help but laugh, and surrendered.  Yep, she wins.

The first time I use it on her, though, she may come to regret her decision to buy it for me.  That thing can be sooo very nice, and it can be sooo deliciously mean.

She’s going to become intimately and profoundly familiar with this unique ability.

Star: 1

Me: 0

…. for now

Just a touch of neurosis

So Sounder is going to swallow cum, and be fucked by a man, before the year is over.  Which I’m beyond excited about.

As of now, I have two options.  The first is Connor (previously called Pet).  And he’s an attractive option for a number of reasons.  He’s young and inexperienced, but very eager.  As far as safety and my neuroses go, he’s the best because he’s small and thin, so I can physically overpower him, and he’s still new to the Dom thing (he started out as a submissive, and is a submissive adult film actor), so I can mentally overpower him.

But there are some drawbacks.  First of all, he’s young and inexperienced.  He’s a teenager.  He lacks life experience, as well as scene experience.  This will be completely new for Sounder, he’s never been fucked by a man, and he’s never swallowed cum before.  So dealing with two people in unfamiliar situations could keep my hands full.

The biggest drawback, though, is transportation.  Connor doesn’t have a car.  He doesn’t drive.  And he lives on the complete other side of town from me, and in pretty much the opposite direction of Sounder.  That part is inconvenient, but not impossible.  The part that really makes me hesitate is after the play is over.  I don’t know how this is going to affect Sounder.  I want to be there with him for a little while afterwards.  I want to make sure he gets appropriate aftercare.  And I want us to be alone.

That won’t be able to happen if Connor is there.  And I’m not entirely sure how to resolve that problem.

So that leaves me with the other option, a man I’ll call Doc.  Doc is extremely experienced and knowledgeable about how this kind of session usually works.  And this won’t be the first time he’s Topped another man.  He knows what to expect.  And he has his own vehicle.

Of the two, he seems like the obvious choice.

The problem is that he’s a male Dom.  As many of you know, I am not super thrilled about his male-Dom-ness.  Especially since he’s already given me reason to hesitate.

Logically, I know I have nothing to worry about.  The rational side of me knows that he’s highly respected in the community, and has been for years.  I’ve known him for years.  He’s not going to cross a line during a session.  I wouldn’t even consider him as an option if I thought there was any sort of possibility that he’d cross a line.

It’s the irrational part of me that is the problem.  And that irrational bitch has been rearing her ugly head relentlessly.  Every time I start to think about some sort of plan, how I want the session to flow, she hijacks my brain and concocts all sorts of nasty scenarios.

And it’s pretty hard to shut her up.  Because the truth is, if something were to happen, there’s not a whole hell of a lot I would be able to do about it.  If my focus is on Sounder, and Sounder is tied up, it would be too easy for Doc to take advantage of the situation.  And the dude is 6’6″ and built like a tank.  There’s no way I could physically overpower him.

While I know Sounder could, that’s only if he’s not bound at the moment, and he’s still dealing with those issues that would make kicking Doc’s ass a bad idea.

And furthermore, it’s not Sounder’s responsibility to do that.  It’s mine.  It’s my scene, it’s my decision to include Doc, and Sounder is my submissive.  It’s my responsibility to keep him safe.  I’m not going to rely on Sounder’s physical strength to protect us, and with the issues he’s dealing with, I’m not going to put him in a situation that may put him at risk to make them worse.

Rationally, I know there’s nothing to worry about.  My concerns stem from my own neuroses.  The problem is with me, not with Doc.

And I need to get over it.

Which is easier said than done.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I could do the session now.  I could make it work.  But I’d be unbelievably tense through the whole thing, and would be paying more attention to Doc than to Sounder.  I’d be watching and over-analyzing every word, every inflection, every facial expression, every gesture.  Not many can read people as well as I can, and my entire focus would be on that.  The scene would be a success, but I’d be too drained to be of much use afterward.

And that’s not acceptable to me.  It’s not acceptable to Sounder, either, who said that my enjoyment is the whole point of the thing, and that’s ultimately what matters.

So, options?

There is one option.  I recently bought a pepper spray keychain after a couple female friends had some rather frightening experiences over the last couple of weeks, and the US has enjoyed a spike in hate crimes since every bigot in the country now feels validated (‘Murica!).

Not that everyone who voted for Hitler 2.0 is a bigot.  But this isn’t a political blog, so I’m going to use every shred of willpower I possess to refrain from turning this into a 5,000-word political rant.  I won’t talk about how the similarities between Trump and Hitler are downright uncanny, or how anyone not a white, straight, cis, Christian male is now at legitimate risk, and have valid reason to fear for their safety.  I won’t talk about my uncle, a veteran who converted to Islam after marrying his wife, who is a Muslim (and one of the kindest, most gentle-hearted people you will ever meet), and how he is so afraid, he won’t let her go to the Mosque by herself, he won’t leave the house without at least one gun, hell, he won’t even go to the bathroom at night without taking a gun with him.

And you know what?  I can’t really blame him.  He lives in a small town in a red state, and his wife (who is all of 5’2″, maybe 100 pounds soaking wet, and is not Arabic, and will sternly correct anyone who calls her Arabic) was attacked after 9/11, and one of the ER doctors refused to treat her because she’s Muslim.

He’s a veteran.  He’d probably still be in the service if he hadn’t been medically discharged.  He loved the military.  He wanted to devote his entire life to serving this country.  To fighting for our freedoms (one of those freedoms being the freedom of religion… you know, the whole goddamn thing this country was founded on).

And now, for the second time in his life, through no fault of his own, he has been made an enemy of his own countrymen.  The very people he fought for were the ones who hurt his wife, and they’re the ones who want to hurt him now.

Hell yeah he’s scared.  And he’s fucking angry.  Possibly to the point of being irrational, but this whole post is about my own irrational neuroses, so I really don’t have room to judge him for the same thing.  His anger is tearing the family apart (he found out my mom and other uncle voted for Trump, and won’t speak to them, and he’s not super eager to talk to me, either, even though I’m on his side, because he doesn’t agree with my opinion that not everyone who voted for Trump is a bigot, and he feels like I’m trying to change his mind), and guess who got volunteered/told to fix it?

And you know what?  I don’t know if I can.  His anger is this huge, horrible, monstrous beast, and it’s completely consumed him.  I am neither a veteran nor a Muslim.  I don’t know what to say to him.  I’m in way over my head.  And if I make even the smallest mistake, if I give in to my own frustration, if I lose my control for even a fraction of a second, then I’ll be responsible for destroying both of my parents’ families, and my daughter will lose two relatives she adores.  I can’t afford to make a mistake, and I have no idea how to fix this.  I have no idea how to get past that wall of defensive anger he has up around himself.

But I won’t talk about that.

I have pepper spray, and the canister is small enough that it can fit in my pocket.  So keeping a weapon of sorts on me, within easy reach, will help me relax enough to enjoy the session.  I won’t have to worry about watching Doc like a hawk, because I’ll know that, in the extremely unlikely case that Doc crosses a line, I’ll be able to defend myself and Sounder.  I’ll be able to maintain control of the situation.

And on the other side, in the much-more-probable case that he doesn’t cross a line, and the scene is successful and smooth, it will help me get over that irrational neurosis in future scenes.

It’ll satisfy the neurotic bitch, and it’ll satisfy the rational woman.  And Sounder will be thoroughly fucked by a man, and he’ll cum again and again with a man’s cock inside him.  Everyone wins.

Dating as a fat chick

I’m a fat chick, and I’ve been dating a very attractive man for about six months.  We’re in love.  He’s introduced me to his parents.  My parents love him.  We’re talking seriously about moving in together.  Everything is great.

Except I’ve never met his friends.  I’ve talked to them on the phone but have never met them in person.  He even had a separate birthday celebration just for him and his guy friends.  He always tells me I’m beautiful and I believe him.  I don’t think you can fake a physical attraction and he always makes me feel beautiful and sexy.  But I think he’s ashamed to show me to his friends who are all with thin, conventionally beautiful women.

If that’s true then that’s completely unacceptable.  But I don’t want to ruin what we have and I don’t want to make him choose between me and his friends

How do I handle this?

Welcome to the world of straight women.

Let’s assume that your suspicions are correct, and while he finds you attractive, he’s afraid to show you to his friends because you may not meet current society’s conditions of physical attractiveness.

Okay, so women are *usually* nicer about that kind of thing, but think about this.  Switch the roles.

Let’s pretend you’re Kate Upton, and you’re dating Danny DeVito, but he was amazing, and awesome, and everything you could ever want in a partner (which Danny DeVito very well may be), would you let his lack of Channing Tatum-ness get in the way?

No, because you’re not an idiot.

However, you know how awesome he is.  You know how he makes you feel, you know that he’s everything you could ever want.  Your friends, who are not you, may not be able to comprehend the truly astounding level of awesomeness that is your Danny.

Are you saying you wouldn’t hesitate, even a little bit?  Because would.  And I have.

And maybe you wouldn’t.  I can admit that I can be shallow, and maybe you’re not.  I don’t know.

But the majority of men I’ve been with have been at a certain level of physical attractiveness.  And for the ones who haven’t quite been at that same level… Well, I haven’t really hesitated in introducing them to my friends, but I have prefaced it by saying something like, “He’s not much to look at, but he’s fucking awesome.”

And, we’re both fat chicks, we can say it.  There are plenty of people out there who aren’t into us.  No matter how hot we are, there are some who will never be able to see us as anything more than fat chicks.

And that’s fine.  They don’t have to be into us.  I truly, honestly don’t care.  I’ve never had trouble finding people who are into me.

Like the guy who hit on me the other day at the music store (with my kid in tow, that hardly ever happens).  He was playing on a guitar as we walked in the room, looked up, and said to his buddy, “Man, something told me to look up, and as soon as I do, I see this beautiful angel with the prettiest little girl walk in.”

Smooth.  I smiled, I went about my business, and he went about his.  He left as I was talking to the sales guy, and that was it.

Until I walked outside.  Dude followed me to my car, and struck up a conversation.  He actually waited outside in the parking lot just for the chance to get my number.

This is not a hugely uncommon thing, folks.

So do you think I care if some random dude isn’t into me?  No.  Because there is no shortage of men who are.

Part of that, I’ll say it again, is confidence.

I am hot.  Even if I’m not feeling it on a particular day, I’ll tell myself I’m hot.  Because telling yourself will actually, literally trick your brain into thinking it’s true.  And confidence makes such a big difference, you’d be completely amazed.  Like, it sounds like some middle-of-the-night, law of attraction, self help type bullshit.  But they’ve actually done studies on this.  Google it.  It’s a big fucking deal.

Be confident.  Tell yourself that you’re hot.  Because you don’t have to be a size 6 to be a full-on knockout.


And don’t ever fucking forget it.

However, there’s one thing I’ve learned in paying attention to the way male friends interact with each other: Men are dicks.

Eh, that may be too strong.  Lovable assholes, maybe.  But they’re kind of brutal to each other.  Seriously, and I thought junior high girls were mean.

So it’s reasonable to assume that your boyfriend will catch all kinds of hell from his friends for your lack of Kate Upton-ness.  Hell, his friends may even think you’re hot, but because men are dicks lovable assholes, they’ll feel that obligation to give him all kinds of hell.

Should that stop him from being proud to be with you?  No, it shouldn’t, and that’s on him.  But cut him some slack.

This is a situation I’m familiar with, because I’ve never been thin, but again, the majority of men I’ve been with have been at that certain level of physical attractiveness, and there have been times that my lack of Kate Upton-ness has indeed caused tension with his friends.

Of course, I’m lucky in that I carry most of my weight in my tits and ass.  Tight jeans, a low-cut shirt, and a great bra have been very effective tools.  Men who spend the majority of their time checking out my cleavage are less likely to bitch about the fact that I’m not a size 4.

You may not be that lucky.  But regardless of whether you are, should you decide you want to, there are a number of little techniques and tricks to win over his friends and stop that tension before it starts.

So here’s what you do.  Tell your boyfriend you’re coming with him to his next guys’ night.  If he goes out drinking with your buddies, tell him you’re coming, too.  Invite yourself.  Don’t give him the option (but don’t be mean, and don’t give him any kind of ultimatum).  And assure him that you know how to handle his friends.  He’ll be nervous.  Do what you can to assuage his nervousness.  But don’t take no for an answer.

Walk into the room as if you own it.  Be dripping with swagger.  By the end of this post, you’ll understand why that swagger and confidence are completely deserved.

It’ll be almost laughably easy.  But there are things you’ll have to do, things you’ll have to remember.

First of all, be prepared.  They’re going to judge you.  Even the nice ones.  They may look at your Channing Tatum-esque boyfriend and wonder why he’s with you.  The less tactful ones will likely say something about it.  Be prepared for that.

And for the love of all that is decent and holy (and this is to all women) put your political correctness the fuck away.  Holy fucking shit, do you have any idea how annoying that is?  You can’t be a feminazi.  Put it away for the night.  Go back to your badass feminazi self tomorrow.

Realize that you’re coming into their space.  So you need to adapt to them.  Whether it’s right or wrong, trying to make them adapt to you will cause you to come across as a snooty/bossy/snobby/obnoxious/buzzkilling bitch.  And you’re not trying to enact social change here.  This isn’t the time, or the place.  Play their game for now, and change their perception after they like you and have reason to listen to a single damn word you say.

Because if you show yourself to be fun-loving, laid back, and reasonable, they’ll be more inclined to listen to you when you do tell them why judging women for their looks is wrong.

That doesn’t happen the first night.  You’ve got to speak their language.  You’ve got to give them something to relate to.  Sometimes, in some situations, that may mean sinking to their level (in a fun way, not a confrontational way).

Listen to the way men talk to each other.  Even professional, educated men.  Chances are, they’re not being any meaner to you than they are to each other.  But men don’t get offended when their friends insult them.  They come back with a better insult.

It’s a game.  Every group has their own specific rules that you’ll have to learn, but the gist is always the same.  And if you’re going to date men that are generally considered above your level of attractiveness, and you want things to go smoothly, then you’re going to have to learn how to play.  And you’re going to have to win.

Which you can.  It’s pretty common knowledge that women can be exponentially more vicious and conniving than men.  Trust me.  Once you get the feel for his friends, once you find that rhythm, it’ll be child’s play.  And, although it seems counterintuitive, it’ll actually be a bit of an ego boost.

As a bonus, it’ll also build your boyfriend up and make him feel like “the man.”  Regardless of your relationship dynamic, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

So play their game.  And throw them off guard.  Surprise them.  Do or say something they’re not expecting.

Want an example?  Here’s one, a snippet of a conversation that actually happened the first time I met a particularly attractive ex’s friends.  This took place at a bar, and after just a teensy bit of drinking, the douchiest of his friends just couldn’t do tact anymore.

Friend (to my ex): M’kay bro.  What is the deal, anyway?  I never knew you were a chubby chaser.

My ex (super offended): Come on, that’s not cool.

Friend: I’m just curious.  Nothing wrong with being curious, right?  Like, what is the appeal?

Me: Ever had road head that was so good you pulled over on the side of the freeway at 2 in the afternoon so she could finish?

Friend: …. No…

Me: That’s the appeal.  I give better head than you’ll ever get in your life.  My mouth and my pussy can do things that would make you see double for a week.

Friend (scoffing): You’re full of shit.

Me (shrug): You’ll never know, will you?  But he (my ex) does.

And it was pretty effective at shutting up his friends.

Of course, it was 100% bullshit.  I never once gave that ex head.  He was my sub, and I was his Domme.  Pulling over on the side of the freeway to have him ride my strapon was more likely.

But his friends didn’t need to know that.

I’ve told an ex’s friends that I’d arranged a threesome for our anniversary.  I’ve told an ex’s friends that I actively worked to set up the ex with my extremely hot boss at the time, and wanted him to take pictures to share with me.  I’ve told an ex’s friend that I gave him head every day for six straight months.  I’ve told Kazander’s friends about how I arranged to have a stripper give him head while I watched.

Out of the examples that I listed here, only the one about Kazander is true.  The rest are bullshit.  His friends don’t need to know that.

Your boyfriend’s friends don’t need to know anything about what the two of you actually do.  If you want to make things easier for your boyfriend (which I would highly recommend), the truth doesn’t mean a damn thing.  Truth isn’t part of this game.  Not for you.

And if your boyfriend is anything like a couple of my exes, his friends will try to test you.  You already don’t meet their standards as far as physical attraction.  They’re going to be looking for reasons not to see you as an equal.  Be prepared, and beat them into bloody, satisfying submission at their own game.

If they make a sexist joke, return it with one that’s even more sexist (as long as it’s funny, it can be sexist against men).  If they tell you to go to the kitchen and make them a sandwich, scoff and say, “Have you ever tasted my sandwiches?  They’re the stuff of legend.  And I can already see that your dick isn’t big enough to earn one of my sandwiches.”

If they say something about your weight, return it with something about theirs.  Or their hair.  Or their clothes.  Or tell them they have no room to talk when they’re drinking such a weak/girly drink.  Be every bit as offensive and crass as they are.

But (and this is important) keep it light.  Don’t get offended.  Don’t get mad.  For the love of gawd, don’t start crying.  Adopt the mindset that none of them are serious.  Remember, it’s a game.  A game that women, generally, don’t know how to play.

But the only reason women don’t know how is because we tend to take things more seriously and more personally than men.  I’m the same way, and I specifically turn that off whenever I walk into those kinds of situations.

If you can learn to turn it off, and remember that it’s a game, and just embrace the conniving, manipulative, vicious mental terrorist that your gender makes you, then they genuinely have no chance against you.  There’s no woman alive who won’t win that game, and stomp her opponents into the ground beneath her fabulous six-inch heels.

Trust me.  It may seem like I’m telling you to be anti-feminist, or to be self-deprecating, but if you follow my advice and do it, you’ll understand how it’s the exact opposite.  You’ll feel like Queen of the Motherfucking World, and it’ll feed your boyfriend’s ego, as well.  With just a little bit of forethought, you’ll be able to build him up to his friends while good-naturedly knocking them down (by their own rules.  Remember, you have to play their game.  You can’t just walk in and start hurling insults.  Women are way more nuanced in their social interactions than men, so you’ll figure it out quickly and easily, but you do have to take the time to figure it out).  Do it right, and your boyfriend will never hesitate in bringing you around his friends again.  He’ll be quick to show you off every chance he gets.

So play the game.  And win.