“Asks” from my Tumblr followers
I’d be into it, but I have the sneaking suspicion that if I ever found a way to replicate myself, I would end up like •••• •••••••’s character at the end of ••• •••••••.
(It’s the man’s only really good movie, so I’m not gonna spoil it.)
(Also, thank you, perv.)
On Tumblr? I consider myself a writer, first and foremost.
But somewhere in our gear bag, hidden away in the closet among the paddles and floggers, there’s a one-off business card that someone made for my twenty-somethingth birthday, which reads:
My Daddy
master-dom, esq.
So I’m definitely something.
Heh. Amusingly, I never intended Sir Michael to become my spirit animal. My intent was to swap the photo out every few weeks with another older and vaguely creepy B-list actor, but it never happened, for several reasons:
1. I was watching The Borgias at the time, and wanted to put Jeremy Irons into the rotation… until I figured out that Jeremy Irons means something very specific to Tumblr. I briefly considered trading in the man himself for a head-shot of Scar from The Lion King, but realized that might only make things somehow worse.
2. I was also thinking Tom Sizemore, but rejected him because he’s now creepy and sad.
3. I’m pretty sure half my audience would prefer to passively believe I’m a drunk, embittered Mr. Blonde, smoking my way through a pack of Kools in a dirty Motel 6 at 4am, feverishly writing tortured fuck-monologues while hunched over a creaky, ten year-old laptop, as a coke-dusted hooker with two black eyes snores noisily into a semen-crusted pillowcase on the bed behind me. Why would I want to take that away from them?
Someone privately asked:
How does a man identify a broken girl?
I’m not sure how to answer the question, because I (rightly or wrongly) feel like I’m atypical. Unless you count this blog, I’ve never actively sought out broken girls; they’ve always found me. More predatory men are undoubtedly clued-in to things I don’t see, but I think there are some broad generalizations I can make.
Broken girls tend to react disproportionately to displays of common decency and respect… their standards are often incredibly low on all but the most superficial of levels. A BG doesn’t feel accepted by the most loving of friends and families, because even those well-meaning folks see her as a problem to be fixed, or a lost soul to be transformed… no one looks at what she is and appreciates it. A man who can look at her, tell her she’s a fucked-up, hopeless mess, and then just… let it go, not turn it into one more mountain for her to climb… well, she’ll be drawn to that man in more ways than she knows how to express. She’ll change everything about herself —evolve into something completely new— just to keep feeling his quiet validation.
What comes of that metamorphosis, of course, depends entirely on the man she picks, and BGs are not well-known for their reliable intuition. Which brings me to what I think is another common characteristic: overwhelming emotional complexity wed to the calm, calculating decision-making capacity of a nervous golden retriever. This isn’t to suggest that BGs aren’t intelligent; in my experience, they’re usually above average. It’s just that their intelligence —as with their beauty, charm, and every other appealing characteristic— seems to invariably get them deeper into trouble. The voices of doubt and shame and fear start screaming in their heads, they freeze in place, and Shit Just Happens around them. They open their eyes after the dust settles, brush themselves off, and wait to see who’s going to make the next big decision in their lives.
Someone privately asked:
How does a man identify a broken girl?
I’m not sure how to answer the question, because I (rightly or wrongly) feel like I’m atypical. Unless you count this blog, I’ve never actively sought out broken girls; they’ve always found me. More predatory men are undoubtedly clued-in to things I don’t see, but I think there are some broad generalizations I can make.
Broken girls tend to react disproportionately to displays of common decency and respect… their standards are often incredibly low on all but the most superficial of levels. A BG doesn’t feel accepted by the most loving of friends and families, because even those well-meaning folks see her as a problem to be fixed, or a lost soul to be transformed… no one looks at what she is and appreciates it. A man who can look at her, tell her she’s a fucked-up, hopeless mess, and then just… let it go, not turn it into one more mountain for her to climb… well, she’ll be drawn to that man in more ways than she knows how to express. She’ll change everything about herself —evolve into something completely new— just to keep feeling his quiet validation.
What comes of that metamorphosis, of course, depends entirely on the man she picks, and BGs are not well-known for their reliable intuition. Which brings me to what I think is another common characteristic: overwhelming emotional complexity wed to the calm, calculating decision-making capacity of a nervous golden retriever. This isn’t to suggest that BGs aren’t intelligent; in my experience, they’re usually above average. It’s just that their intelligence —as with their beauty, charm, and every other appealing characteristic— seems to invariably get them deeper into trouble. The voices of doubt and shame and fear start screaming in their heads, they freeze in place, and Shit Just Happens around them. They open their eyes after the dust settles, brush themselves off, and wait to see who’s going to make the next big decision in their lives.
I love the way you phrase that, like being a 5’1” virgin is akin to having a conjoined twin growing out of your armpit. “How do I get experienced men to ignore the creepy way Half-Susie’s misshapen little foot kicks when they touch my nipple?” Everyone loves short chicks, weirdo… it’s not a tough sell.
My recommendation? Wear a t-shirt that says “I’m Legal And Prepared For Disappointment”.
I’ll grant that his “don’t they know we’re bringing them the plague?” is the kind of line I’d love to craft, but like Freud, you suffer from a lack of imagination.
Never blame a mother for the babysitter’s handiwork; then as now, bored teenaged girls can be surprisingly perverted.
Women fascinate me; everything about them is interesting. The way they look, smell, talk, laugh, move, and feel… all the classic stuff. But I also love the weird, fucked-up parts, the bits they’re reluctant to let men see; the stuff they work so hard to pose and primp and prance around.
Jesus fucking Christ… women’s own bodies punish them for being sexual entities; from the loss of virginity to the misery of menopause, through every menses-soaked, yeast-infected minute in between, it’s just one long fuck-storm of maintenance, worry, frustration, and physical pain. And none of it is due to the systematic oppression of anyone by any -archy you can name: it’s just fucking life for them. How do they even survive that? How does a woman manage to get out of bed in the morning, knowing today is just one more day when she might wake up to ruined sheets, an invisible fist clenched around her uterus, an overwhelming urge to alienate everyone she knows, and the near-certainty that every dog she meets is going to announce her personal business to the world? And so much horribly worse, she has to live with the knowledge that all of this is perfectly fucking normal.
I look at women and think: what must that do to your head? How does the constant connection of blood, pain, and dread to your sexuality screw with your ideation? Your body is built to house more than one brain; how does that alter your perception of what it means to exist within that body? How maddening must it be to intellectually crave autonomy as deeply as any other human, and yet physically crave invasion and occupation? And this is all before we even touch on the societal stuff like misogyny and patriarchy, mind you. Once you get to know the generic Alice, you begin to realize she doesn’t need to fall down the rabbit hole; she is the hole.
So I suppose one reason I write this stuff is my deep appreciation of the beautiful horror of womanhood and femininity.
That’s hella possibleeeee.
(Sorry, I just wanted to see if repeating an unpronounced letter to imply extended audible emphasis looked as goofy when I do it. It does.)
sillysexystupid-deactivated2020:
Daddy sewing my cunt shut & forcing me to be an anal only cunt. I like to picture myself kicking & screaming. Begging Him not to. Telling Him He can’t do that, it’s not fair. In my head, Daddy patiently smiles at me, explains that I’m His property, so of course He can do whatever He wants with me. Then He slaps me across the face, tells me to shut up & hold still, & finishes what He was doing.
Was not expecting this to get any notes😳😳
Hey, it’s a post about a man teaching himself to sew. That’s bound to be popular.
