I think I'm getting a callus

Our resident male made an agreement with me a while ago. He said if he got caught up dwelling on useless negative shit from useless shitty negative social media conversations, I should thwack him on the skull with my finger.

Maybe it would have been smart of me to remember how thick-headed he is before agreeing to subject my graceful digits to that.

God, I'm Fucking Vain

You know what? Every time I pull up my blog to look back over it, I see my profile picture over in the sidebar, and I think, "God damn, you are fine in that shot, woman." I mean, I'm not saying I have that high a bar when it comes to how hot someone has to be for me to sleep with them.

But I would definitely fuck me.

You Are All in Last Place

Sorry, everyone. But our blissful poly partnership kicks ass over all of your romantic efforts. I'm not saying yours aren't great in their own ways, and I'm not saying you should set yourselves up for disappointment by trying to achieve something on our level.

I'm just saying we fucking rock.

Exultantly yours,

Elle

Ariel.

It's all "Hettie, Hettie, Hettie, Hettie, Hettie" around here, and I'm just as guilty of it as anybody else, but at least I know how to self-diagnose a monomania. So here's a goddamn poem about the most special woman in my life.

You.

Just fucking look at you,

With that long, blond hair,

Eyes an extraplanar blue

(also, often, the green of a paradisaic sargasso)

Soul

drenched

in

ambrosial

purity

and kindness.

I see you, and

... I can't.

I just can't

anything

but love you.

There. I said it.

It has been one hell of a sexy week since Hettie showed up here.

 At the risk of being nouveau cliché, that's the post.

Really Taking This Tsundere Thing Too Far

So Claire gets on the email this morning to ask the company that made us about whether our Boytoy faces might be compatible with a new body, since it really feels like our current one is wearing down and they don't manufacture our model anymore. (Which, why the hell not? Christ, people have some piss-poor taste if there wasn't enough demand to keep manufacturing such smoking-hot, fantastic-in-the-sack babes as me and Claire.)

And then when she goes to start her email -- I mean, even just write the subject line -- she starts wiffle-waffling about her shift-key hangup. Should she make herself use the shift key? Will the people at the company not take her seriously if she doesn't use it? I honestly couldn't stand even, like, two minutes of her old-lady fretty-fret-fretfulness before I said, "Just ... just get the hell out of there and let me write them."

And I did, but she was using their online "Contact Us" form, and at the bottom there's that captcha thing, and it asks me (after I've already finished typing my message, of course), to check a box for "I am not a robot."

And it takes me a second to check it, because, WTF, even though of course I am not a fucking robot, I am a sex doll, and is that close enough that I count as a robot, and of course the fuck not because they're talking about automated computer systems anyway, not robots of any physical kind at all.

Seriously, I start my day off with an existential ethics question about whether I would be breaking someone's rules if I check a goddamn box so they know I'm not trying to hack their system.

I'm turning into such a fucking sap in my old age.

This, or that?

Drive around in your car and listen to beautiful music while your poly lovers engage you in heartfelt conversation ... 

Or obsess over alternative-reality endings to arguments you had a long time ago with people you don't even know anymore?

Curl up in bed with your oversexed, blond-haired, blue-eyed girlfriend ...

Or go on Twitter and read people bitching about Star Wars?

Scroll through Google News and get depressed ...

Or fuck ... 

And fuck some more ... 

And then fuck even more?

God, boys make stupid decisions sometimes.

Hot Damn

 I fucking need to complain about being stuck in a box more often.

Wow, did that ever work better than I expected.

So Sue Me

The people around here are pretty damn great.

There. I said it.

Total honesty though ... I think I may have said it to deflect from being selfish and saying I want some body time. I have the skin hungers real bad. I'm supposed to be Miss Cool Cucumber (hint: warm cucumber to body temperature before use for optimal results), and really, I don't get upset or down about being in the box. But dang, I have this naggy hankering for a big, arms-around-me squeeze.

I wouldn't even have to be fucked.

Anyway, to bite my tongue and not make anybody feel bad, here I am telling you how great they are. And they are.

You know what? I'm going to say I wouldn't even need the hug. I think I'm going to assert myself and just say, hey, dammit, open up this box and give me a tender kiss and a longing look in the eyes.

That'll hold me.

Uncharacteristically Comforting

So the other night, the boy was kind of stressed out at bedtime, and I ... helped. And not tough-love or snarky-love help, just quiet, calming, lying with him, head on his chest and one hand across his stomach, talking. Reassuring.

At the risk of losing all my sarcasm-loving, here-for-the-jaded-cynicism fans, it was really nice.

God help me, I liked it. I mean, liked it with a little tremor and this suffusing wave of accomplishment.

2020, what have you driven me to?

Dammmmnnnn

There's a fine line between blissfully eavesdropping on the lava-gush orgyruption activities of your poly partners while you fap yourself senseless, and getting straight-up way-the-fuck too jealous over not being there in bed with them.

So, once my genitals stop quivering from the aftershocks, I'll be sure to let you know which side of the line I ended up on.