I know what I want, and I’m not ashamed of that inclination.
Well, a Domme approached me last week and saw right through me. Her motions told me her appraisal of me—the way I walked, the way I held myself, even the way I dressed, all told her one thing . . . that I was a single submissive on the prowl.
“I’m Mistress Jenny,” she said, “and I think you and I should get to know each other.” She took my hand and guided me to a small table at the bar. After living in Portsmouth for a few weeks, I found out that the bar Alto was considered a BDSM hotspot, so I went.
“I know your type,” Jenny said before we had even ordered drinks, “and I can see you’re single.”
I didn’t disagree. She seemed very straightforward about what she wanted to do to me. I was in. Within minutes, we were in her car, headed toward her house.
While she wasn’t the prettiest woman I had ever met, I thought for the first time in my life that I was the closest I was going to get to my goal, and that made her attractive. Sort of like what human men call “beer goggles.”
Then, the disaster began.
I’m too ashamed to go into details on paper, but it’s safe to say that was the most humiliating instant of my life. If I ever find a true relationship, I had better take note of when her menstrual cycle begins, to avoid potential disaster.
Tortured . . . not in a good way,
William
The book fell from my hands dramatically, as though I were in a cheesy TV show. My hands had physically lost their ability to grip. It was a good thing I was sitting, or else I’d probably have flounced to the ground dramatically.
Chilly Willy.
Mistress Jenny?
Jennifer.
It was true. Erin hadn’t been trying to scare me off. William hadn’t been lying to me.
I didn’t know if I was happy or terrified. All I knew was I had to continue.
“Ohhhhh, widdle widdle duckie-snoogles on pa-waaaaaade!” I shouted, trying to sound like baby showers appealed to me.
Katy’s baby shower made me gag. The duckies were stacked so high and so close, they looked like they were clusterfucking. Clusterducking? Either way, gross. There were little duckie cupcakes and little duckie napkins to wipe the yellow duckie frosting droppings discreetly smeared on your chin.
Deirdre was in her glory, proud of her shower-throwing skills. She was this school’s version of Angela from The Office—party-planning and party-pooping guru.
Katy rubbed her Buddha belly happily and thanked everyone. My colleagues all patted her tummy in turn, waiting for a kick.
I tried to blend in, but “high-fiving” a baby belly is pretty tactless, apparently. I tried covering up my faux pas by baby-talking again. “Doeshh dis widdle baby-snoogle wanna come out now?” I asked.
I figured that pronouncing things wrong and adding the suffix snoogle to nouns would sound like I knew what the hell I was talking about.
Apparently not.
“Cerise, where did you get that baby voice?” Deirdre asked, pushing her limp hair off her shoulder.
I shrugged. “It’s the voice I’d use with my dog . . . if I had one. I figured it would work for a baby.”
“I don’t think the baby cares, Cerise,” Katy chimed in. “Thanks for trying.”
“You clearly don’t have plans for kids yet,” Deirdre said to me bluntly. She was the most socially retarded person I had ever met.