His Love of Bikini Is Our Love of Suit

It's been said a man cannot resist the vision of a nice pair of breasts. I'd have to agree with the statement; breasts, butt, curve and cunt, they all captivate the eyes and hearts of (straight) men.
But men aren't only attracted to women's naked bare bodies.
One of the most popular videos on Youtube at one point was of a woman exercising in front of a Wii. She was wearing a t-shirt that covered her entire upper body and butt, down to her thighs. She was not wearing any makeup. She was not trying to look appealing. In fact, she didn't even know her boyfriend was filming her.
But it reached the top of Youtube's list, and most of the (male straight) commentators thought she was hot.
It's not always about what a woman is wearing—or not wearing. Often, it's about what she's doing, how she's going about it, and what her attitude is.

The same applies to men. Yes, I find Husband sexy when he's naked and ready to fuck me. But there are a thousand other things he might be doing during the day, millions of them, that make me pause and catch my breath and think to myself, My God, that man of mine is HOT. 

Sometimes I tell Husband I think what he's doing is sexy. Other times I do not, since I've found that once I tell him, he often exaggerates whatever it is he's doing, turning it into a parody, which is not sexy.

But here is a short list of otherwise tame and innocuous things which I think are totally sexy. I might add to it as time goes on.

When he:
•Rolls up his sleeves...very, very slowly
•Shaves using shaving cream and a razor.
•Pours water over his own sweaty head.
•Smiles wickedly.
•Uses a wrench to fix, well, anything.
•Buckles his belt around his waist.
•Unbuckles his belt around his waist.
•Walks around wearing a pair of blue jeans, open to the crotch, but no shirt or socks.
•Walks around wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.
•Rubs his face with both hands.
•Looks at me with furrowed brows.
•Falls asleep stretched out on the couch.
•Calls his mother. (Yes, I find this hot, and endearing.)
•Laughs unrestrainedly.
•Corners me against the wall.
•Grabs my wrist.

Ladies, start making your own, and share them with your man. You might surprise him.

What I want YOU to want.

There are men out there who want me for my cunt,
Who want me for my breasts,
Who want me for my lips and tongue and mouth.
There are men out there who call themselves Tops, and they are: they want to look down upon me as I go down on them. And if that would be all that happens between us, they would be satisfied.
There are men out there who call themselves Sadists, and in a way, they are: they would be happy to make me hurt, if they knew by doing so, I would be open and agreeable to servicing their cock. If the pain is my foreplay, then they are all for it--
because the foreplay leads to fucking.
There are men out there who are open to all sorts of kinky persuasion, if my holes are open to their dicks. They want the lewdness, the depravity, the debauchery, the happy ending.
The glory they see in me is my glory hole.

That is not what I want them to want.

I want a man who wants me for my screams, for my tears, for my cries of fear and shame and agony.
I want a man who wants me for my head, my mind, so he can learn how to play the best mindfuck possible on me, and never let me see it coming.
I want a man who can make me shiver and sweat in panic.
I want a man who can keep me in a constant, simmering state of confusion and alarm.
I want a man who will come after me at just the right time, with clarity of purpose, to make me whimper and beg and plead for release, and smile wickedly as I do.
I want a man who will make me struggle, and laugh in the face of it.
I want a man who will scheme and plan to lure me into his trap, and cackle at my feeble attempts to free myself once caged.
I want a man who think beauty means running mascara and flushed cheeks.
I want a man who wants to find out for himself how hoarse my voice can sound after I've been screaming for so long. I want a man who is curious how high pitched my screams can go.
I want a man who thinks I'm hottest when all reason and sanity have left me, washed away by the onrush of adrenaline, brought on by terror.
I want a man who wants to hear that distinctive battle cry ripped out of my chest...and know my cry is pointless, that the battle is already won.
I want a man who relishes my wracked sobs.
I want a man who will push me to the breaking point.
I want a man who thinks I'm cute when I'm desperate.
I want a man who will growl with contentment as I writhe and wince inside my restraints, testing the physical and mental boundaries he's set upon me.
I want a man who will chuckle with mirth as he sees the horrified look of realization appear upon my face.
I want a man who wants my humiliation, my contempt, my sheer rage.
I want a man who cannot feel pleasure until I am in pain.
I want a man who will make me bleed out my need.
I want a man who sees the glory deep down inside me, but understands that it can only be revealed through my complete defeat. That my defeat is part of the glory that is me.
I want a man whose peak of triumph comes at my moment of surrender.
I want a man who will stop at nothing to attain it.

So you see, it's not all about what I want; it's also about what I want you to want. And I want you to know what you want, and be clear about it.
Because what you want should not be all about what you think I want to hear to get me to fuck you.
(Dude, it's never going to happen anyway.)

Doms: They're Harsh When They Need To Be

Last night, Husband made a "Scheduled Appointment" to talk to me. A "Scheduled Appointment" means the kids are not allowed to interrupt, and I am not to be in Mommy Mode, I am to be in Wife Mode. While he often stops to talk to me at other times, a Scheduled Appointment means it is serious, and I should be ready.
Fine.
He spent the entire time talking to me, without letting me respond in turn. He laid down the law on a few things. He let me know about a few changes that would have to be made, ones he knew I would not like. He ended his little monologue with "Are we clear?" And when I said yes, he said "Fine then; we're done." And that was that.
I left the room. I took a few minutes to go over the "conversation" in my head, to really think about what he had just said, and decided that no, I wasn't okay with all of this. So I went back to the bedroom where he still sat in the rocking chair, looking at his email, and told him so.
"What exactly is bothering you?" He asked.
I went over my concerns. He calmly answered them all, clarifying where he had been ambiguous, and correcting the things I had gotten wrong in my head.
I lay back on the bed, quiet.
"What are you thinking about?" He asked me.
I said honestly, because honesty is required between us: "I'm trying to decide if you're trying to be an asshole."
At this, he smiled. "I'm always trying to be an asshole to you," he said, and went back to reading his email.
"Thanks a lot," I grumbled.
"You're welcome," he replied.
Husband can be an asshole, but he is my asshole, and as weird and as wrong as that sounds, it is true. Sometimes he has to make decisions he knows I will not like, but he does it for the sake of the family. And sometimes he knows, in order for me to get how serious he is about his decisions, he has to sound like an asshole.
He does not do it to be mean. He does it because that is his job, and he takes his job seriously.
And I love him all the more for it.

Butt Ugly

So I have body issues.
I may have remarked on that before. I don't remember. It's one of those things that I just kind of consider part of who I am, that voice in my head that reminds me I'm ugly. Sometimes I got that bitch under control, and other times, I do not.
This is one of those times I do not.

I've lost a fair amount of weight in the last few months. 24 pounds, in fact. While this is not an incredible amount of weight, it is not an oh-my-god-what-did-you-DO weight, it is still a noticeable amount of weight...to some people, at least. Others don't notice at all, which is fine. Others notice there is something different about me, but just can't put their finger on it, and end up asking me if I've changed my hair. Which, you know, is also fine. My hair can use some positive feedback.

The point though is, I can notice I've lost some weight, and I thought it was enough to feel slightly better about myself. Not good, mind you, but better. I really thought I had gone from the Butt Ugly Coming Through! category to the Normal Woman Walking category.
Let me tell you, feeling like a Normal Woman Walking is so much nicer than feeling like Butt Ugly. Butt Ugly thoughts are a downer.

Here's the thing about my butt: I can't really see it that well in the mirror. The fact is, nobody can really see their butt that well in a mirror; the best anyone can do is a kind of twisted side-angle peeking of ass. You can't get a straight on view, because your eyes aren't on the back of your head.

So I asked Husband to take a picture of my butt. I had plenty of "before" butt pictures, you see; lots of pics of my raw, red, bruised, belted, and welted butt from before I started losing weight. I thought to myself, here is a chance to see how much better my butt must look! 
Husband took a picture of my backside. It wasn't just my ass: the picture he took ended up including my waist, hips, thighs and legs.

I grabbed my camera, plugged it into my computer, waited for the picture to upload, opened it up, and

wanted to cry.
My computer is a mac, so I have iPhoto. Within a second of seeing that picture, I pressed "edit," and started to "retouch" out all the dimples, lines, and rolls. With each edit I made, I hated my body a little more.

After losing 24 pounds, I've decided my butt doesn't look any better than it did before. In fact, I think maybe it looks worse.
I've come to the conclusion that my butt is one of the most ugliest butts I have ever seen, and no amount of weight I lose or exercise I do is going to change that. Nothing I do can help that. It is an ugly butt.
It is not just my butt, though. It is also my back, legs, and thighs.
I have an ugly, misshapen, wrinkly, dimply, pimply, blotted, blemished, smooshy, poochy, saggy body.

I am feeling bad about it.

Not only that, I am feeling bad about feeling bad about it. It's one of those things. A couple women at the munch I attended the other day told me I'm hot. I'm sure they said it to compliment me, and not to make me feel uncomfortable. But I did feel uncomfortable, one, because I don't believe it, and two, because I feel guilty for arguing with them about it when they are clearly not trying to start an argument.
They mean what they say.
So do I.

I don't know why I'm writing this, frankly. I am not going to give up getting to a healthy weight, I'm not going to give up exercising for my own good, and I'm not going to wallow (too much) in self-pity. I am going to accept the fact that my butt is ugly, no amount of weight loss will make it a pretty butt, and I will focus on my good attributes.
Like my eyes. I have pretty eyes. And I have nice funky toes, too. Funky is not pretty, but it adds character.

You there, you with the pretty butt: yes, you. Enjoy that nice ass. Be proud of it, and use it well. Some of us are living vicariously through you.
Well, through your butt, anyway.

The Real Power of Fetlife

Today, I learned of another death in our local Bay Area community. Iain of Edukink has passed away, and while no death can be truly prepared for, this one came at as a complete shock to the entire community.
I learned of his passing through Fetlife.
It was not the first time I'd been notified of a death in our community through Fetlife; it was not the first time I'd learned a major, life-changing event. I've learned of births on Fetlife; people expanding their families in other, blessed ways on Fetlife; people's geographical moves; new careers; new Significant Others; marriages; divorces; and so on. Sometimes, I've read about simple epiphanies my friends have had that have been so shattering, so cataclysmic to their old way of thinking, that they had to share it--and we were there to read, listen, and applaud them for making such an important leap on their journey.

Fetlife can sometimes be an awful beast. There are trolls here, stalkers, predators, lurkers and thieves and mischief-makers. There are those whose interest in the kink community never goes beyond a certain gruesome fascination, and Fetlife is their peephole into our seductively riveting world. Yet they hold their fascination with haughty contempt: we are the freaks; they are merely the audience, watching the spellbinding show. They get to watch from the safety of their own darkened rooms, where their high-definition screens light up every nipple and ripple of skin, and feel contemptuously secure in their own anonymity.

But for many of us (and, I'd like to think, a vast majority of us), Fetlife is different. It is a gateway into a whole other world, full of great friends, great fun, incredible community, and a whole new definition of family. It is like a wardrobe that leads to Narnia...
But the door doesn't swing. It slides.
What comes through the gateway to the vanilla world, your vanilla world, is completely up to you.

Fetlife should not replace community. It should augment it. It should be a place of support, knowledge, understanding, and laughter. It should be where friends can come and gather to encourage one another, learn new things, keep abreast of each other's lives...and when necessary, unite as one to help our brethren in need.

Look, I know Fetlife has its problems. It's been tainted by those who would corrupt it, abuse it for their own power. Hell, even Fetlife's own creator is guilty of this.
But Fetlife is not any one person. It is not even many people. It is a beginning, a door to something better, and you don't even have to take a step back to open it; all you have to do is move a bit forward.

The world behind it is right there in front of you. And while we're not exactly waiting around for you to show up...we'd be sure glad if you did.