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.

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.

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.

A different approach

This past weekend, the spawn was staying with family, so Kazander and I had the house to ourselves.  Which is a rare enough occurrence that we wanted to take advantage of it.

I spent a big chunk of the morning and early afternoon teasing him and doing some light play, but the interesting thing happened when we decided to take a shower together.

I’d planned to make him cum in the shower, but when he got close, he fell into one of his old habits.  He moved away and said, “Wait, I don’t want to cum yet.”

It’s something that never fails to annoy me, and I usually launch into the same, tired reminder that he doesn’t get to make that decision, he doesn’t get to dictate to me when he cums, and he should be grateful I was in a nice enough mood to allow it in the first place.

We have gone round and round and round with this.  Depending on my mood and the day I’ve had, it’s gotten to the point now where it’s enough to quash my libido and make me completely uninterested in touching him for the rest of the day.

So that spike of annoyance ran through me, and I opened my mouth to voice my frustration.

But then, I had a different idea.

“Alright,” I said.  “Well come here, I want to edge you again.”

I made him bathe me in the shower, then I bent him over and fingered him while edging him two more times.

We got out of the shower and got dressed.  I made him edge again just before we had to go over and spend some time with the family next door.

About half an hour into the visit, I pulled out my phone and texted him.

“Go home and edge again.”

After dinner, we went back home and binge-watched a TV show together.  And at the end of every episode, he had to edge twice.

I think it was around Edge #12 or so that he figured out what I was doing.

“I should’ve just kept my mouth shut,” he groaned as he squirmed on the couch after yet another edge, his cock throbbing.

“Oh?” I asked.  “Did that end up being a bad idea?”

“A little bit.”

“I’m glad you think so.  Edge again.”

He sighed, there was just the slightest hesitation, and then he reluctantly reached down to bring himself to an edge again.

Another five or so edges later, he was frantic and desperate, the begging almost constant.  He kept trying to bribe me to let him cum, and he got a fantastic refresher course on just how relentless I can be.

Another five or so edges later, he couldn’t stop writhing even between edges, absently humping the couch, needing constant reminders not to touch himself.  At one point, I tied his hands to keep them off his cock.

“Please, Mistress,” he begged, his voice strained as I reached down to edge him again.  “I’ll do anything.”

“Will you?”

“I’m sorry, I messed up.”

“Is that so?”

“I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“I almost believe you.  Now hush, I think I can get a few more out of you.”

But the time I finally let him have a ruined orgasm, I was half expecting him to start crying.  But even with not having much relief from all the edging, he was more than happy to not touch his penis for the rest of the night.  And he was decidedly more well-behaved.

We played a bit tonight, and again, I decided to let him cum relatively quick.  But interestingly enough, this time there was no moving away or protesting or telling me he didn’t want to cum yet.

Afterward, I asked him about it, and he said he almost did, more out of habit than anything.  But then, he remembered the way it felt this weekend, and thought better of it.

So yeah, I think that’ll be a much more effective way to break him of that habit.  Way better than spanking him or scolding him.

It’s not a traditional punishment, per se, but it worked pretty damn well.  Yet another useful little tool to put in my tool belt.

Cultivating a Dominant Presence

Anyone can put on a corset and leather mini skirt.  Anyone can tie her hair up in a severe bun and draw on black eyeliner.  Anyone can wear thigh-high boots and swing a flogger.

Any woman can put on the costume.  But what makes someone a Dominant?

In a word: Presence.

A Dominant has to be able to command respect, embody authority, and basically intimidate the hell out of everyone when she wants to.

sexy woman

Command respect, convey power, exude authority

I remember the first time I met my mentor.

I’d seen pictures of him, of course, but it was entirely different meeting him in person.  When he walked through the door, everyone in the building noticed.

It was like in those movies where the main character’s crush walks in to the party, and everyone just stops.  Time seems to move in slow motion as all eyes turn to the door.

That’s the way my mentor was.  He didn’t just have confidence; he had presence.

And it was intimidating as hell.

I knew immediately that’s what I wanted to be.

I wanted to be able to command a room like he could.  I wanted to be the one that made time slow down.

I had no idea how to be like that.  I had some major self esteem issues as a teenager, and when I looked at this confident, charismatic, knowledgeable, secure, self-assured man, I was 100% sure I could never hold a candle to that.

Who he was as a Dominant and a person was so far above and beyond who I was, it was like we weren’t even the same species.  I couldn’t imagine that I would ever be in the bracket as him.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Charisma isn’t something you’re born with, guys.  It’s not something you either have or you don’t.  And it’s not something you have to be a supermodel or a bodybuilder or a celebrity to have.

Anyone can master the skill.

And if you want to be a Dominant, you have to learn it.  It’s so much more important than the clothes or the dungeon or the toys.

It’s the difference between something you do and something you are.

But it can be difficult for someone who is new to the scene, who may not be naturally charismatic.

I heard a woman named Olivia Fox Cabane talk about charisma, using Marilyn Monroe as an example.

Everyone knows who Marilyn Monroe was.  She became the most iconic sex symbol and a powerful role model for women, so much so that she’s still a relevant figure, 50 years after her death.  She was a sex-positive, body-positive icon for women.

Many thought that her career was over when it was discovered that she’d posed nude before becoming an actress.  In the 50s, that was pretty much an instant career-killer.

But not for her.  It skyrocketed her career, and when she became frustrated with the sexist and misogynistic practices in Hollywood, she founded her own production company.

There are a handful of people in every generation who have truly mastered the art of charisma.  She was one of those people.

Ms. Cabane related a story told by a photographer who accompanied Marilyn one day.  Marilyn’s goal was to show the true power of charisma.  She wanted to illustrate to the photographer what her “secret” was, how she had harnessed this real-life superpower, and used it to propel her forward.

What Marilyn wanted to show was that just by deciding to, she could either be glamorous Miss Monroe or plain Norma Jean Baker (her real name).  On the subway, she was Norma Jean, but when she resurfaced on to the busy New York sidewalks, she decided to turn into Marilyn.  So she looked around and she teasingly asked the photographer, “So, do you want to see her?  The Marilyn?”  And then, he said, there were no grand gestures, she just fluffed up her hair and struck a pose.  And yet, with this simple shift, she suddenly became magnetic.  An aura of magic seemed to ripple out from her and everything stopped.  Time stood still, as did the people around her, who stared in amazement as they suddenly recognized a star standing in their midst.

No one bothered her or recognized her on the subway.  She was just one of many attractive young women in a big city.  There was nothing special about her.

But then, all she had to do was turn on that light inside of her.  A subtle change in presence, in posture, in expression, and everyone within sight of her noticed her.  She became that character in the movies who walks into the party, and even the photographer, who had spent the entire day with her, was awed by her presence.

That’s what charisma is.  That’s what it means.  And that’s just how important it is.

And no, it’s not reserved for the young, the beautiful, the rich, the famous.  Everyday people like you and me are capable of it.

Which begs the question, how?

I’ll probably write more on this subject, but the first step is the biggest, and that’s what this post is about.

The first thing to do is feel good about yourself.  And you don’t have to be a size-6, 22-year-old supermodel to feel good about yourself.

Feeling good about what you see in the mirror has laughably little to do with what you actually look like.

Everyone is eventually going to get old, everyone’s body is eventually going to decline.  That 22-year-old supermodel is going to wake up one day and see stretch marks, flabby arms, and sagging tits looking back at her in the mirror.

And then what?

If her self image is wrapped up exclusively in how she looks, her self image will decline as her body does.

You don’t want that.

It’s not about your appearance.  It’s about training your brain to focus on your best attributes, while glossing over the less-than-perfect ones.

As it is, most of our brains do the opposite.  It’s just a matter of turning that around.

Think of the brain like a muscle.  The more you train it to take certain pathways, the stronger those pathways get, and the more your brain wants to take those pathways naturally.

A tool that worked for me in the beginning was to use my clothes and makeup.  I spent hours and hours poring over fashion and makeup tutorials, learning how to accentuate the positives and minimize the negatives.  I probably know more about fashion now than I do about cars.

And I know how to make that knowledge work for me.

When I’ve got the right bra, the right low-cut top, and the right butt-hugging jeans, it’s hard not to like what I see in the mirror.

When I like what I see, other people notice.

I’ve been asked what my “secret” is, how I’m able to carry a room or talk someone into doing what I want, how I’m able to intimidate or allure, without saying a word.

But there’s no secret.  I’m not Heidi Klum.  I’m not some untouchable icon that other women could never hope to be.  I don’t have magic powers.

Guys, I need to stress this:

I’m not a model.  I’m only 3 years away from leaving the “Young Adult” club.  I’m fortunate in how I carry weight, but I’m a BBW.  Objectively, I’m average-looking.

How average?

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Please forgive the dirty mirror, my 6yo wanted to “help” me clean today.

This is a typical sleeping outfit for me.  Panties, a tank top, and a sleeping bra (which is just a fancy name for a sports bra that’s a size or two too small, tight enough to keep everything in place while I’m asleep).

You can see that my body isn’t perfect.  You can see the cellulite and the Mexican thighs and the big hips (I have reproduction to thank for that).  Pull up the tank top and you can see stretch marks and a C-section scar.  Pull the bra up and you can see stretch marks on my boobs from when they literally went from a DD to an HH in less than 3 months, then shrank back down to an F.

My BMI puts me in the top 47% of women my age in the country.  Literally the definition of average.  My face is average, too.  My forehead is high, my hair is fine, and my lips are thin.

I’m telling you all of this because it’s so important for people to understand that being magnetic, commanding respect, and exuding authority has nothing to do with the way you look.

There’s nothing special about the way I look.

But when I turn on that light inside me, I’m exemplary.

And people notice.

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As I said, exemplary.  And I’m actually about 15 pounds heavier in this picture, originally published in an older post.

And it’s not because I’m prettier or younger or thinner or smarter than anyone else.  It’s not because I’m a low-key superhero with magic powers.

It’s because I know how to use charisma.  And I know how to use it because I learned how.  It’s not something I was born with.  It’s not something that came naturally to me.

But I learned it.  And the first step was learning how to feel good the way I looked.  It wasn’t about waiting until the way I looked made me happy, it was about becoming happy with the way I looked.

Everything else comes from that.  Every charismatic and magnetic person started with that.  With feeling good about what they look like and who they are (this post focuses specifically on physical appearance, but feeling good about yourself as a person is just as important).

Feeling good about yourself means that other people are inclined to feel good about you.  And if you’re an average-looking person who knows what it feels like to be ignored and shrugged off, you genuinely appreciate the attention.  And when you genuinely appreciate the attention, you’re warm and friendly.

And when you’re warm and friendly, you’re likeable.  When you’re likeable, even more people take notice.

It’s a snowball effect that only gets bigger and bigger once it starts.

So how to start it?

It starts with putting on a nice outfit, looking in the mirror, and thinking, “You know, that’s not half bad.”

Do that often enough, for long enough, and it turns into, “Damn, that’s actually pretty good.”

And then, almost overnight, you find yourself commanding the respect and attention of everyone around you.