Being Pampered

pedicure

When guys ask me (and they always at some point inevitably seem to) “what color are your panties,” I’ve decided I’ll just reply, “They’re color-coordinated with my nails, sweetie.”

What is it about panties? A lot of guys, in my experience, seem way more interested in the panties than in what the panties cover. I guess that’s what a fetish is, right?

Of course, girls like me could be said to be nothing but a fetish! Not a real woman, but simply the idea of a woman. And the clothes that enclose us are what signifies desire…and its sister on steriods, lust.

My lust, I must sheeplessly confess, is fed by the clothes (including panties) that I put on, the sexier the better. So, too, do the acts of putting on make-up or nail polish. For I am consciously making myself into an object of others’ lust.

But more: Doing your nails or doing your lashes requires total concentration (if you’re doing it right, that is). If you’re distracted or rushing, what you’re trying to perfect will ienvitably be flawed. The concentration is such — so complete, single-minded and intense — that it feels like meditation or yoga.

It’s the same feeling I get, come to think about it, when I’m focusing on giving a really good blow job. The same goes even for a truly memorable hand job. I don’t know whether the guys ever really notice, but if I’m not totally focused on what I’m doing with my mouth, lips, tongue, or fingers and hands, I’m just not that into it and get very little pleasure myself.

The one time I’ve tried doing four guys at once — using both hands and both holes — I’ll share this little secret: It’s just one guy too many! The hard cock nudging my bottom is just way too distracting. Simultaneously giving proper head and hand jobs becomes impossible!

You never see a nail technician doing two hands (or feet) at once, do you!?! I rest my case. My case for complete concentration.

Here’s an unrelated, random thought (showing I’m not concentrating on my writing right now!): In an ideal world, my ugly feet would be my only flaw.

Sharing Secrets

aerobics2
Even better than sex, I sometimes think, is simply being accepted as one of the girls. I’ll never forget my very first aerobics class! Wherever I am, I try to recreate that experience. I’m a member of the club…been admitted into the secret sorority. What more could any would-be girl want or ever need! (Besides an occasional, wonderfully reaffirming hard cock, mais oui.)

The Irony of It All

514_456678077706839_1520584169_nIf our eyes are windows into our soul, what do they say about us when they’re clouded in cum? Such was my freak-out when that first happened to me (cum-in-the-eyeball, see previous post) that I went to the nearby free clinic to be tested for HIV…again…and again. Each time I would have to tell the clinic workers, who were used to working with sex workers, why I wanted to be tested. Didn’t I insist that all my so-called boyfriends wear condoms? Of course, I replied, slightly insulted (I wasn’t stupid!).

So I would have to repeat my embarrassing tale of how I got a big wad of cum in my right eye, initially blurring my vision, stinging a bit, and making me worry like hell. Since the eyeball is covered in a moist membrane (right? I couldn’t remember my high school biology specifics), wouldn’t that transmit the deadly virus just like other delicate avenues into the body?

An anus of an eye? A vagina of the visual cortex? When worried sick, think up outrageous metaphors!

“You’re funny,” the nurse said. “I always like working with girls like you. You all have such a wonderful, outlandish sense of humor.”

“You’re not making me feel better,” I said.

“Well, sweetie, I really don’t think you have to worry. I’ve never heard of HIV being contracted this way. We’ll have the test results back in a week.”

She paused. I nodded.

“In the meantime, next time, why don’t you try just wearing glasses!”

One girl’s floo…

One girl’s floor is another girl’s ceiling.

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