In my BDSM life no four words piss me off more than these.
“So, you’re a fake.”
These are usually used when, while getting to know someone, I talk about how I don’t go to munches or fet-nights. I mean, don’t get me wrong I used to. In my twenties. When I was younger, and everything was new and exciting. But it’s not anymore.
These days I hunger for the BDSM home life. A good meal, a roaring fire, a great movie on the telly, cuddled into my Miss, my pet cuddled up to me.
I find joy in BDSM being subtle. A glance that shows what I want. The look that shows what they need.
My hope is not to only gratify my base desires (no matter how fun they are), but to also show my pet that she is loved, adored, wanted, safe, protected.
So no I’m not interested in going to a fetish club. After all when I have got a femme-sub…
I don’t get off on training my sub in public, it’s a private act, between, her and I.
I don’t enjoy being surround by a crowd of horny people slobbering over me, my Miss, my pet.
I don’t enjoy watching people who haven’t a clue, showing off, and only revealing, (to those who know what they’re doing), that they actually haven’t a clue.
Hell I don’t like going to bars in the evening. Bars, you know where you sit, and drink socially. Why in the fuck would I, someone who is to say the least a home-bird, want, or be comfortable sharing the single most intimate part of my love life with total strangers?
Why should I have to?
Well I don’t, and I won’t. When I again have a pet, if I ever again have a pet, she will be loved, adored, wanted, safe, protected, and her submission treasured. I don’t need to prove that I’m real to anyone but my Miss, and her.
And you know what, if you have a problem with that, fuck you! The only thing fake about me is my hair color!
(End rant! Guess what was said to me this week?)
