Archive for ‘humour’


These dreams, the ones that make me think…well fuck.

You ever have one of those glorious dreams? The ones where you wake up, angry because it wasn’t real, and you know most of it will never be real. I had one of those last night.

I was on a road trip with Tegan (one of my guardian angels), we were having a great time. But the RV I’d rented for the trip broke down…bummer. The fourth car to come up to us stopped, well I say car, FUCKING HUGE pick-up. Okay, cool, not glorious yet though is it?

Patience folks, it’s about to become so.

Well I’m relieved, Tee is relieved, the RV is dead, and the pick-up driver is Beth Orton.

Beth “so fucking beautify my heart could break just lookin’ at her” Orton.

Beth “her voice makes my spine melt every-time I hear her” Orton.

Anyway the RV is fuckered, the hire company are sending out another for us, but it doesn’t to us ’til the next day. So what to do? Turns out Miss Orton has an idea, dinner at hers, a spare bed, and my not stressing ’til I’m in tears for the whole day.

Well the dream went on. Dinner was eaten, my uke was dragged out, I ended up playing, and singing badly with our hostess. My badly, not Beth who sings like my idea of a perfect angel. And the next morning I woke up to find my uke signed by her.

Then I woke up…fuuuuuuuuuuck. It was a dream…*sigh*

All that said a road trip has been mooted in the past 12 months. I’ve started the ball rolling on actually making some money from my MANY projects. My partner in crime has made it clear that I need to learn to drive. An RV…well if it was done right would cost less than hotels, and give me something I would desperately need; instant access to a toilet anytime day or night, oh and an unchanging space that’s mine.

Yeah this could work.

Wonder if Miss Orton will appear somewhere in it all.


The very worst part of being chronically ill, is the guilt.

No really, I’m not kidding. Worse than; in no particular order,

the pain,

the tiredness,

the diarrhoea,

the bleeding,

the constant low-grade headache,

the skin lesions,

or even having to deal with tin-god junior doctors.

Seriously, worse than any of that is living with the guilt. But what do I mean by “the guilt”? Well that’s going to take a bit of explaining.

The average person can do pretty much what they want to do. Want to see a movie with a friend? No problem, “Which movie, and what time?”

Tell their partner not to worry about the housework, that it’ll all be done when they get home; yup, got that covered.

Or how about wanting to go to bed with a lover, going all out with the flirtation, the foreplay, the making them feel like they’re standing at the centre of a sexual whirlwind; then having to stop because you’ve run completely out of energy, or because your body has decided that this is exactly the right moment to need to throw up?

My own life is a huge list of cancelled plans, lost connections, and missed opportunities. I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve gotten ready to go somewhere, only to have to cancel at literally the last-minute. Or how many times I’ve missed events that I was really excited about attending; many burlesque events, artistic events, movies. Hell not that long ago I had to miss one of my favourite singers, Voltaire, because my body decided that it really needed 4 straight days of bleeding from my bowel.

In essence, I am an involuntary flake. Totally unreliable where any social life outside of my own home is concerned. To be able to do something as minor as go do the weekly grocery shop I rely on medicating my body to a point where I will “probably” get a few hours of not needing to be within ten feet of a toilet. Note the “probably”, the quotation marks are there because about 1 time in 10 it doesn’t work, with sometimes rather cataclysmic results for my underwear.

Now, you’re probably thinking that this should all lead to my feeling sorry for myself. But it doesn’t, or at least it only does very rarely. I’m used to not being able to plan with any certainty. The best I can ever promise is “maybe”, or very occasionally, “probably”; I’m used to being like that. I’m used to never being able to even think “definitely”. Definitely simply doesn’t exist in my life, and I’m used to it, I’ve had to grow used to it.

But what I’ve never grown used to is the guilt that goes with constantly letting other people down. For example, I quite simply can not remember the last time I went out for a night with my Partner-in-Crime. No memory at all, it’s been that long. And I feel terrible about it. I know she loves a good night out. I know she would love to have one with me, but…

See, there’s always that but. Even if we manage to make it out the door, odds are I’ll need to come home very early when my bowel starts to voice its disinterest in staying away from its porcelain best friend.

The same goes with friends. Over and over I arrange things with friends, only to have to cancel at the 11th hour because I simply can’t leave the house any longer.

So, boom, guilt for letting them down. For cancelling plans and leaving them in the lurch.

Then of course there’s the other sides to the guilt. The the side triggered by the worry you cause people you love. Or the aspect of it caused by not being able to pull your own weight. Or the guilt that strikes when you realise that you’re just a bad girlfriend, a bad friend, a bad lover, daughter…the list goes on and on.

And all this means that you say “I’m sorry” waaaaaay too much. So you find yourself feeling guilty for being sorry.

Yeah, being ill is rotten, but feeling unending waves of guilt is worse. Now if you’ll excuse me, the toilet is calling my haemorrhoids, by name.


Off to Cork for the weekend.

Yup, it’s Mommy time,  so I’m going to leave you all with the funniest YouTube clip I’ve seen in years.

And the entire of my favourite childhood animated movie. Click the link and enjoy. (Admittedly the picture quality isn’t all that good, but for a an old VHS scan it’s not terrible, and the show really is worth a watch.)

Flash Gordon: The Greatest Adventure of All.

Anyway have a good weekend, and see you all on Tuesday.


Am I old now?

This morning while listening to the 80’s radio station on Spotify I actually came out and said the following to my Partner in Crime.

“80’s music was just better.”

Then I was called old.

I’m 35 years old.

Strictly speaking Amanda, is still less than a decade old.

But if I am totally honest I do feel old. Some days very, very old.

As any of my readers by now knows, I have a lot of physical problems. And one of the more troublesome aspects of those problems is that most mornings I wake up feeling as though I’d been beaten in my sleep. Hard. With a cricket bat. This manifests in my barely being able to walk the 15 feet to the toilet, and usually having to collapse back on to my bed for a little while afterwards.

Even 5 years ago I used to jump out of bed, and immediately be able to move gracefully. Now, I sort of half stumble everywhere for the first ten minutes out of bed.

Emotionally, I don’t fall for people like I used to. In fact in the past 12 months I’ve only had one crush. And even there I find myself not having any hope in my heart at all. It kind of feels like I found wisdom in loving, and that wisdom sucked the joy of adventure from my heart.

I can’t stay up late anymore. I want to be in bed with a mug of hot milk by 10pm every, single, night. And if I do stay up late it takes me days to stop feeling tired.

I can’t drink anymore. It just makes me feel, yuck.

I find myself watching old movies, and preferring them to modern remakes. I actually realized last week that I prefer The Thing From Another World (1951) to The Thing (1982).

I find myself wishing that gaming companies would stop making new games, and start updating the graphics on old games. I’d love to play a version of the Breath Of Fire series, where nothing has been changed aside from the music and graphics.

Do all of these mean that I am now old?

I’d rather sit in with a DVD than go out to a bar.

Actually I’d rather sit in with a parasitic worm infection than go out to a bar.

Am I setting in my ways.

Are carpet slippers, and 30 cats my next port of call?


So who exactly am I?

Lately this is a question that’s been on my mind, and for once thankfully it’s not a question which is related to my gender, after all I’ve already mostly answered “What am I?” pretty well. It’s a question that’s cropped up now, because I find myself going through a period of very intense emotional upheaval. I’ve spoken before of my history of childhood sexual abuse, well no matter how well you’ve dealt with it in the past, that sort of history is always waiting in the long grass for a chance to pop up, and at the very least make your life extraordinarily difficult. And that’s pretty much what it’s doing to me these days, it’s kind of hard to walk the dog for instance when you’re sitting with your head in your hands, sobbing through a truly enormous snot-bubble.

But it did lead me to wonder if we ever really know who we are.

I can give examples of who I am. Sort of personalised stereotypes to show who I am as a sort of “what I am”. But that just leaves me wondering which of them is the real me.

Some of your reading this know me by my real name. I write with a pen-name, though not to protect my secret identity from my evil arch-nemesis. You see the real me likes being a writer, likes the feeling of accomplishment when a piece is finished, loves dreaming up the stories and articles. But she doesn’t particularly like the process of writing. It involves far too much of things like punctuation, grammar, and hard work. No she would much rather do the daydreaming part, while she plays with her dogs, makes love to her partner, and plays Borderlands on her Xbox. To her writing or drawing are simply a way to be what she really likes being, a storyteller. So Amanda Harper was born, or created, or always existed but needed a chance to come forth…uh yeah, it all gets sort of meta here.

Basically Amanda Harper is a part of me, in the same way that I’m sure deep down Indiana Jones is an unexpressed part of Harrison Ford. She’s me but a different expression of me. If that makes sense.

And she’s not the only one.

There’s the me who was a Scout, who’s really good at map and compass navigation, and the sort of stuff that Bear Grylls would find fun. She took it all frightfully seriously, and did all sorts of advanced courses in everything.

Then there’s the me who was a moderately successful rock-climber for much of her teens and early twenties. Rock-climbing is, (like many sports) a manifestly silly pass time, (golf anyone?) and the me now sometimes finds herself a gibbering wreck at some of the risks I took. I wasn’t a stupid risk taker. I almost never climbed without proper safety equipment. I was careful to only stretch my skills to their limits, not for me the climbing 3 grades above my skill level and finding myself falling head first for a mouthful of gravel, or stones, or stunned climbing partner. No instead I usually put my safety line in the hands of the least reliable creature known to humanity, the teenage boy. You know the ones who can look at a blank wall and still find on it a reason to be distracted by an erection. Man, I should be dead.

And they’re far from alone.

Probably the most important one is the shield-bearer. The shield-bearer is the one who appeared when I was being raped. She was strong enough to fight, strong enough to not have her mind shredded, strong enough not to show weakness, while the rest of me huddled in a quiet corner of my mind, and did its best impression of a gibbering wreck.

The thing is that they’re not separate, or split personalities. They’re more like masks, pulled on when needed, so I can do what I needed to do.

Need to be fearless, the climber.

Need to be reliable, the scout.

Need to be badass, the shield-bearer.

Need to write a book, Amanda.

Need to beat Halo (again), geeky me.

But these days I find myself wondering sometimes which of them, if any, is the realest version me. They’re all real, they’re all me, but one of them must be more…me…I think that makes sense. And lately I’m starting to think that the hurt, frightened, crying 8 year-old girl in the wrong body. The one who was betrayed again and again, who was abuse body and mind. The one who still sits inside of me crying her heart out for herself, when she isn’t shaking in fear of the people she loves being hurt the same way she was. That one. I wonder if really she’s the realest me of all.

So who exactly am I?

I don’t know if I can answer that question. I don’t know if there is a singular answer. I guess there’s probably lots of versions of me, all facets of a hidden core personality. But I suppose I shouldn’t worry about it, maybe if I could answer it life wouldn’t be so much fun. I should probably just enjoy wearing all the masks that are all different and yet still all true to me.

Hmm, not a lot of sense in this article. Maybe I should try this again after I’ve healed.


H&M, turn down the fucking lights!

An afternoon of mooching through my local shopping centre was needed. New Look, BB’s for hot chocolate, and to my current detriment H&M.

H&M are not one of my favourite clothing stores. What they do is nice enough I suppose, and it tends to be reasonably well priced. But it’s all sort of cookie cutter…

“Take 1 bolt of cloth.

Cut in shape of XXXXX



DO NOT engage imagination in design process.”

…is how I see most of what they sell. Though I will admit that if you want a t-shirt that you’ll still be able to wear in two years time, and at a good price, they do kind of rock.

Where they do not however rock, and/or roll, is in their current in store lighting scheme. I mean, Dear Goddesses was that shop bright! Someone in their limited wisdom decided that what they really needed was simulated daylight, at an intensity only ever seen in the Sahara Desert, at high-noon, in the Summer, during a supernova. Needless to say, this is a light level of a type never found naturally in Ireland, where year-round, a dull matt grey is the prevailing sky color.

Now I’m sure for those weirdos who wander around indoors wearing sunglasses, because it’s obviously not cool to let other people see your eyes, it was probably the perfect lighting. They might actually have been able to see without squinting, or shading their eyes. However for those of us who are of less fashionable victim stock, it was simply painful. Unfortunately here I literally mean painful. Because guess what it triggered?

That’s right, yet another migraine!

Look H&M I kind of like your stuff. But not enough to risk blindness, or at the very least blinding headaches by shopping in your store. So please for the love of all that’s unholy turn down the bloody lights, or and I mean this, I will walk right across the hall, and do all of my shopping in New Look instead. Aside from anything else some of their bits are actually kind of funky…fully lined red red and white gingham prom dress I’m talking about you.


Five signs that my dogs are trying to kill me.

I realise I’m nuts to own two dogs when I have pretty severe ill-health and live in the middle of a busy town. But I’m more than happy to drag myself on my belly to the local park to exercise them, and there’s also the security of two women living in a house that EVERYONE in the town knows has two dogs in it. That said, I’m starting to wonder if my dogs have it in for me. Things have happened. Worrying things. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if my dogs are in fact, cats, wearing dog costumes…

You see it all started when…

– I was cleaning upstairs last week. You see I had a really stunningly gorgeous gothic visitor calling, and wanted everything…just so. Anyway, I was finished and as I walked down the stairs I tripped over one dog, barely caught myself, only to have the other dog walk out in front of my legs. Face met door in a symphony of pain.

Learn the phrase “symphony of pain.” Situations it applies perfectly to, are going to come up a lot in this article.

– Of course there’s also the many, many burns on my arms. No. My dogs aren’t putting out cigarettes on my skin, though I suspect that if they could, they would. But Lulu, the tiny half papillion, half who-the-fuck-knows, has over the past few months found herself a hobby. That hobby involves nudging my arm with her head, WHEN MY HAND IS INSIDE THE LIT LOG BURNER! Insert sizzling noise, Amanda swearing, and a dog sidling off.  This leads over the coming days to repeated symphonies of pain anytime the burn is near anything hot, cold, hard, soft, or canine.

– Then there’s the decking. We have a large, walled in, decked area outside of our backdoor for the dogs. It’s easy to wash down with a garden hose, and keeps them from taking it into their minds to go playing in the nearby traffic (most of the time at least.). Sounds great doesn’t it? It would be but for one thing, well two things really. Winters poop, and Lulu deciding that she’s going to tear Winters poop apart, and spread it liberally across the decking, thus making a disgusting, and in the wet weather that dominates Ireland, slippery death-trap. I know, I’ve landed flat  on my back three times in the past few months. And as I lie there, surrounded by my own personal symphony of pain, I swear I can hear evil sniggering in the background.

– Don’t you love squeaky toys? The way those rubber chickens, and pigs give your beloved pets hours of joy, and happiness as they walk around holding them in their mouths, squeaking them constantly. Until your brains feel like they’ve started to run out of your nose, ears, eyes. But that’s not how they’ve decided to kill me with those rubber menaces. Oh no, a stroke just isn’t evil enough for my pair. No, I believe that they carefully place those toys, right where I’ll step on them, while I carry a cup of scalding hot lesbian tea to the living room.

Imagine the scene, Amanda, humming happily to herself carrying in one hand a piping hot cup of fruit tea, in the other four delicious biscuits. She steps through the door into the living room. The two dogs watch on with bated breath as the enemies foot lands right on the over-sized rubber, squeaky chicken. The chicken squashes, and slides on itself, letting out one sharp, ear-shattering squeak as Amanda’s leg flies out from underneath her, sending her plunging to the floor. Amanda finds herself on the floor, a goose-egg sized lump on the back of her head from the door-frame, scalds on her arms, and a symphony orchestra tuning up for a gutsy performance of something by Wagner in the key of ouch in her back.

– Finally we come to last Sunday, visitors had arrived, and the dogs were duly put out the back so that they would be unable to drown our guests in dog spit. Unfortunately the back gate was open. Lulu escaped, and made a mad dash in to traffic. Several mad dashes actually, and being a good puppy-mommy guess who was right behind her…the little bitch tried to get me to follow her under a truck.

It was when I got her back home, put her in her cage and sat down that I first came to the realisation that my dogs want me dead. After all why else would all of this keep happening to me?

You at the back, put your hand down, my clumsiness is not up for discussion today.


You know it’s F**KING cold, and you have inadequate heating when…

Well I’m off to my moms for the weekend on Thursday, well my moms and a Friday evening with one of my adopted lil sisters. But that leaves me with a slight problem. This trip wasn’t really planned, meaning I didn’t have a couple of weeks to get ahead of myself work-wise. This leaves me with two written blogs, a video blog, AND a webcomic page to have done by Wednesday evening…you’re getting list posts. Sorry but that’s how it is, and seeing as for the past week my first thought every morning has been “Gee I wonder are my eyelids frozen together this time?” We’ll be starting with this.

(Most of this list is made in jest, but I did honestly think every single one over the past 7-10 days.)

You know it’s F**KING cold, and you have inadequate heating when…

…there’s semi-frozen slush on the insides of your bedroom windows.

…the idea of being smelly is more appealing than having half of your body exposed by the bath water.

…a shower sounds like a quick way to get colder.

…the dogs refuse to leave the living room, even to eat.

…they also refuse to leave the living room, to pee.

…or poop.

…you go outside, and realise it’s warmer outside than in your house.

…a long boring drive is appealing purely for the car heater.

…your computers cooler fans haven’t switched on in days, even though you’re playing a borderline playable game, at maximum graphic settings.

…you leave out dinner to defrost, and it doesn’t.

…you need a hammer, and chisel to remove the dog poop that is outside on the decking.

…Eastern Europeans are saying that the weather is getting a little nippy. (Extremely bad sign, those places have SERIOUSLY cold weather.)

…you don’t see a single overweight, florid faced man, in a t-shirt for days.

…going to bed, you still have your bed-clothes on underneath your day clothes.

…getting up the following morning, your first act is to put on your heaviest clothes, over your bedclothes for the third day in a row.

…your second act is putting on your hooded fleece, with hood up, to go eat breakfast.

…you can’t wait to empty the tumble-dryer, oh that glorious gust of hot air, and those lovely toasty warm linens to cuddle as you fold them.

…you stand with your hands in the sink for 10 minutes before you remember that you’re supposed to be washing the ware.

…you rush to empty the dishwasher so you can handle the dishes while they’re still roasting hot.

…you’re a Winter person, but you keep catching yourself thinking longingly of Summer.

…you actually consider renaming your dog “Winter” something a little warmer, like “Summer”, “Lava”, “Volcano” or “Heat-Death”.

…you slice your finger open, and don’t notice until the sandwich you were just making is ruined by the blood-pool.

…Hell sounds like a great vacation spot.

and last but far from least,

…you seriously consider moving out of the house you adore, just to be warm.


Little Ruminations on Homekeeping – Cleaning a wood burning stove.

I may have mentioned that I have a wood burning stove. Oh look at that, I did. Well as it turns out sometimes you have to clean those buggers out. I don’t just mean emptying the ashes from under the grate here either. I mean dismantle that sucker, clean off all the built up crap, and then somehow put it all back together.

Sounds kind of intimidating doesn’t it? Well worry not dearest reader, I’m here with a step-by-step guide based on my own experiences. Enjoy.

 1: Wake up, stare bleary eyed at the ceiling for twenty minutes wondering if you are really awake, or if this is in fact another one of those weird dreams where you’re waking up, only to wake up with a start a few minutes into it wondering what the hell is up with your subconscious.

 2: Realise that, yes, you are in fact awake. Get up, pee, miss the toilet bowl, get dressed, mop the bathroom floor. Go downstairs.

 3: Walk into the living room intent on going through to the kitchen for some yummy fake Cocoa Pops. Five minutes later realise that you’ve been staring at the stove which only yesterday simply refused to light.

 4: Get very, very pissed off.

 5: Get your toolkit, and stand in front of the stove.

 6: Pick up a flashlight and rap it sharply on the metal part of the door.

 7: Quote Liam Neeson in Taken to make sure that the soot is truly aware of what’s about to happen. Of course it’s going to be a little confused by why you’re coming after it to get your daughter back, when the soot had her shipped off to a petting zoo for rich anthropomorphic panda’s the previous week. But it’ll still set the tone nicely.

 8: Open it’s door.

 9: Stick your flashlight, and head in to find the various nuts you’ll need to remove.

10: Sneeze. Remember to cover your nose, and mouth with your hands when your sneeze. No need to cover the dogs in snot after all.

11: Spend 10 minutes cleaning last nights ashes out of your eyes.

12: Clean out the remains of last nights ashes.

13: Try again.

14: Remove the side plates.

15: Using a vice-grips, because you don’t own even a single spanner, removed the nuts holding on the back plate.

16: Remove the back plate.

17: Swear loudly as the top plate lands hard on your fingers,

18: Gag when you get a mouthful of foul-tasting ash, and soot after trying to suck on your aching fingers.

19: Take out the top, and back plates.

20: Unbolt the plate covering the upper air vent.

21: Look proudly at the pile of parts.

22: Swear loudly when you see the huge pile of soot, and ash that is now covering every inch of your sitting room floor.

23: Use a stiff brush to removed most of the soot clinging to inner walls of the stove.

24: Deal with the disappointment of realising you’ll never get it all. I recommend a six week course of intensive therapy with a qualified psychologist at exorbitant hourly rates. OCD is a cruel Mistress.

25: See what’s inside the opening to the flue for the first time. Nearly die of fright.

26: Have a stiff double whiskey.

27: Use your brand new vacuum cleaner to clean up all the soot which has already made its way into the room, as well that which has filled up the space created by your having earlier cleaned out the ashes. After all it’s all going to be downhill from here, the worst is behind us.

28: Stick the vacuum cleaner nozzle into the flue, and get as much of the loose soot build up as you can.

29: Stick you hand up the flue.

30: Panic when you can’t get it back out.

31: Wonder how that guy who cut his hand off with a blunt swiss army knife felt.

32: Let go of the the handful of soot you were holding, and sigh with relief as your hand easily slides back out.

33: Realise you’ve let yourself in for a bigger job than you thought, one which you do not own the right tools for.

34: Go to the DIY store to buy a flue brush. Yes, they do exist.

35: Wonder why everyone is looking at you weirdly.

36: Get home, and using the newly acquired brush vigorously clean out the flue.

37: Sneeze, and swear as the living room gets covered once more in a not so fine layer of soot. Remember to cover your nose, and mouth with your hands when your sneeze. There’s still no need to be covering the dogs in snot after all.

38: Wrap the brush head in a plastic bag, and put in the shed.

39: Leave a thick trail of soot, and ash between the living room, and the backyard on both the way out, and back in.

40: Using the vacuum cleaner, clean up the living room.

41: In what you think is the reverse order you used to dismantle the burner, remantle it. (I know it’s not a real word, but I like it, so there!)

42: Try this three times.

43: Realise you’re doing it wrong.

44: Do it right.

45: Cross-thread two out of 4 nuts.

46: Replace these nuts with another trip to the DIY store. Again wonder why everyone is looking at your funny.

47: Clean up. This should include, but not be limited to, the sooty paw prints both dogs have left on the television, the walls, the curtains, the staircase carpet, the sofa, each other, AND somehow the inside of the fridge.

48: Light a fire.

49: Bask in its warming glow.

50: Look up at the mirror above the fireplace for the first time all day, and realise that you’ve somehow managed to cover your face with a mixture of mucus, soot, and ash.

51: Try to decide whether it’s awesome, or awful that you look like this…

52: Be told by your Miss that you look really cute when you’re all tomboyish, and mucky.

53: Strut!

And there you have it. 53 steps to a clean wood burning stove.


Little Ruminations on BDSM – Latex Allergies.

When I started out in my BDSM lifestyle latex was one of my great joys. After all I was slim (still am, well in a more average sort of way than back then), tall (ditto), and (weirdly) even when I was pretending to be a boy it looked pretty damned good on me.

These days I’m still more or less slim (what I said above), and tall. I have a killer ass, and not just because of the tummy problems either, and of course I’m busty as hell. I like to think that I would look absolutely amazing in latex. And you’d think that as a Domina, or a Slavegirl I’d be spending 90% of my time in latex wouldn’t you?

Ya, I wish. Remember on Tuesday when I mentioned a latex hood?

Let me tell you a little story. It’s all set in that mythical era of X years ago. A, somewhat, younger Amanda was hanging from a door having the ever-living shite beaten out of her. She was working, occasionally, as a professional Domina at the time, and so could for the first time afford to buy small pieces of latex. In this case a reasonably pretty hood.

Well anyway, what Amanda didn’t realise until that night was that while her skin is perfectly happy wearing latex, the inside of her mouth, and throat really aren’t. And of course they just had to inform her in the most definitive terms, by making her almost pass out.

This makes for a very sad Amanda.

I mean sure I can still wear latex clothing, as long as it’s kept well away from my face. But if I want something tight, restrictive, and sort of shiny to wear, that’s what my leather is for.

But what does it leave for my head? There simply are no pretty leather masks or hoods. They all just look so clunky, or harsh. Which is fine for those who like that. But I liked how I look in a latex hood, especially pretty ones, that are perfectly tailored to my head, have well thought out contrast color patches, and attached ponytails. No other piece of fetish clothing can enhance my sense of power, or powerlessness quite so much (all dependant on which role I’m fulfilling at the time).

So to the point of this piece, if you good reader are a kinky individual, and are lucky enough to not have a respiratory allergy to latex, please spare a thought for those who are less fortunate. Those poor unfortunate souls who will never again feel the delicious, and wonderous caress of latex on their faces, followed by that delightful feeling of all over constriction as their hood is zipped/laced shut.

Think of us, and maybe bitch at your local fet-shop about them getting in some spandex? It’s not the same but when it’s a choice between good spandex, or bad leather, is there a choice really?

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