down in me

i am a girl that needs to be babied. you are a boy that needs to baby a girl that needs to be babied. likewise, i am a girl that needs to be disciplined (sometimes). you are a boy that, well you get the idea. what i mean by babying is possibly simple. what i mean by discipline is possibly not so. if you are the boy that needs etc., you will know innately what is meant by these terms. you will know, for example, that whether babying or discipline occurs the result is always sex. this does not mean that babying or discipline are an excuse for sex or to in any way justify sex. this does not mean that sex does not happen of its own accord because it does very much so often, one hopes. it simply means that b. and d. are intimate and therefore arousing. it will be of course, for you to decide the terms and even the follow through, if such is to occur. as a boy that needs etc., etc., you may well be in possession of a larger amount of willpower, physical power and self-discipline than a girl that needs etc., etc., and so there are several ways - pacifiers, if you will - to get a girl that needs etc., etc., to shut up, including but not limited to: a throbbing cock or a large plastic gag or a well-placed palm or a combination. As in everything, the punishment should fit the crime and your response as a boy that etc., must be tempered with love, and appropriate - not borne out of misplaced anger. which is why it is also important that you are a boy open wide, a thinker and an artist. that your fingertips can feel skin electrifying and know whether i’ve had too much, whether i’m breaking or i’m talking too much, when i myself don’t.

Sweet boy with mean streak for playmate to nice, lonely girl. Must be interested in knives, glitter, sex, music, philosophy and bubbles. Must write good bad poetry. Must not impregnate girl. Must be artistic with blood, semen and other bodily fluids. Must not beat girl at video games. May beat girl in bed. Responsibilities will include toenail-painting, asphyxiating, tickling, challenging, coddling, spanking, etc. Send sample poetry or artwork and short biographical note.

Independently wealthy benefactor to subsidise eccentric-reclusive writing lifestyle. Must have own publishing contacts, be willing to arrange the particulars of successfully marketing the works, and handle any and all paperwork / accounting / legal matters. Must also procure suitable accommodation in remote locales that is conducive to creativity, and other essential provisions, including but not limited to mind-altering substances and mood stabilisers. Awkward asexual longing or rescue fantasies / mothering complexes are welcome traits. Inquiries via email only.

Clever and playful wordsmith for exchange of written, sexually charged, vernacular tomfoolery during work hours and/or late nights. Your thinly-veiled confession gets mine.

Ethically unencumbered editor seeks sexual favours in exchange for publishing shite poems in respected independent literary journal (experimental, but not genre-specific; elite, but not elitist; avant garde and other cool sounding, meaningless adjectives).

Extremely shy and awkward party animal seeks like for MDMA-induced rubbing, grabbing, grinding and/or groping at the bottom of a human pile on the warehouse floor. Sex unimportant. Glow stick optional.

Confident, professional female seeks ambiguously gay pretty boy for confusing physical relationship with potential for longer term pathology. Non-smoking, disease-free. Drugs optional.

Nameless, faceless stranger for shameless groping/necking session in velvet-upholstered corner of darkly lit bar. Unattractive male preferred; age and marital status unimportant. Will also consider large bull dyke.

Sensitive type with puppy dog eyes for exchange of awkward glances across cubicles and heart-poundingly quiet moments at the photocopier. No experience necessary. Muteness a plus.

“Damn, you look good. You should always dress like that.”

“Why’s that?”

“So I won’t have to look elsewhere.”

This isn’t for you, bitch, fuck off. Let’s dress you in a skirt and make you teeter on your heels. Now turn around, fucker, I’m going to put you in the position you so often liked to see me in.

Our relationship was sullied by the bank notes that passed through our hands. Transactional exchanges of the soulless. Now that I’m in a position to pay for your services, though, you don’t seem to enjoy the art of negotiation half as much.

You taught me the value based solely on monetary worth and now that you’ve squandered the green, you want to switch up the rules. Not for you, bitch. Show me that sweet virgin ass and I’ll show you my business end.

Perhaps a barter is more your style today? My self-worth for your self-loathing with a side of dignity, in the spirit of fair trade. We could shake on it but we both know the value of your word, so instead we’ll seal this deal with a kiss.

You sat next to me and the carriage filled up quickly. Our thighs touched. You opened your legs wider. Your arm pressed into mine so hard I felt the blood pump through your veins.

I held my posture: my back straight, my hands in my lap and my stoic, upturned face, faraway yet hyper-aware. My gaze never met yours. Instead I watched you out of the corner of my eye. As I noted the rise and fall of your chest, the rhythm of our breaths synchronized naturally. I licked my upper lip softly. In response, you bit your lower lip lightly.

We fucked. Or we could have fucked. So warm and pressed so close you made me perspire. I ran my fingers over my throat and down my chest and took a deep breath. You took a deeper breath and inhaled my scent, prompting you to press closer, tighter. Stronger.

Too soon we pulled into a busy station and you rose to your feet effortlessly. You disappeared through the crowd. I felt used. Empty. Like the girl that gave it up on the first date and never got a callback.

I caught my breath and smiled inwardly, in a pretend post-coital haze.

Flash flash flash a bit of skin but not too much. I’m good at this art form of the feminine form of wiles all the while I’m flirty pink female dangerous flesh but far more dangerous words.

Look but don’t touch not much not until I’ve had my fill reeled in the kill and sated. But I’m not going about it in the usual way, that scurrilous scandalous supercilious way. I play up the damaged goods angle, the sexy goods angle, the saucy and lost, tarty and dirty but shy angle. Demurely provoking beck and call behind a long dark eyelash curl.

There’s nothing demure to that play I play so well in the historic bygone style of luscious betties and seductive janes. I’m out for treasure, but not the gold kind, the buried kind the real kind the kind you just don’t find. This is a show, burlesque by force but it’s not a pat down or a put-down, a put-on or a shakedown, it’s a showdown: my wit and your brawn in a fight to the death or at least to the break-up. But you can never take me and rarely will you take me down because I’m sharp fluid motor curves and quick.

Believe hushed tones from a full red pout please believe that I actually do bleed when you can’t match me word for word. Even as I catch sight of your delicate swaggering sunlit outline ambling towards me in the distance and everything screams no go, no go, I allow myself split-second thoughts as I allow myself every other indulgence.

I wish you’d kick the candy-coated doors wide open, tangle velvet tresses in your grasp and drag me out reminding me how small and fragile I am, but only after you’ve overpowered me with a mere thought because nothing quite so impresses my place upon me as a well-written missive in the dark. Hurdles jumped, you’re free to take from me as though it never belonged to me in the first, simply claim righteous debts and in the final hours of the tie-me-down, stake-your-claim victory rape fuck, I’d have been reborn remade redeemed.

Sadly the crushing pressure of my crashing expectations is all it takes to topple the worthiest and most steadfast of suitors. Chances lost I’ll cut you to the quick, lash out knife sharp razor like tongue blade and leave you reeling not knowing what or where but stinging all the same. And with that I’m good as gone down the road, hightailin’ it back cross country on my murderous rampage route due west because I’m living fast and free, no cares no cares.

“Faster, pussycat! Kill! Kill!” 

Thought I’d make it easy give it easy hand it over, surrender it willingly? Learn to read as I blow you kisses in a flurry of poisonous goodbyes.

(This post brought to you in part by The Cramps’ Smell of Female album and the Russ Meyer film.)