theferrett: (Meazel)

Finishing up a huge project for today, but over at FetLife (TheFacebookforKinksters), I wrote a humor essay on a neglected topic: How To Be A Super-Duper Ninja Sex Texter.

The obligatory sample:

So! You want to make people masturbate to thoughts of you, using only your phone. And yet whenever you text, “I STICK IT IN. I STICK IT IN!!!!!” you get nothing but awkward silences.

Possibly because this is because you accidentally sexted your mother. Or possibly it is because you do not know the secrets of effective sexting. And you know who knows all the secrets of effective sexting? Not me. Shit, that’s a deep well, dude. There’s like ten million ways to get someone off with your mind and an unlimited data plan.

…but I know a few.

The essay’s over here, and actually contains some pretty salient tips on writing customized erotica.  So go check it out, if you’re interested.  Ask questions.  Kick the tires, you know how it is.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Yesterday, Gini smooched our girlfriend Bec, then and broke out in a rash so nasty it required two Benadryl for Gini not to scratch her lips off.  Bec apologized.

“It’s okay,” Gini said.  “You were using the same Burt’s Bees lip balm as always. I would never in a million years have guessed that would give me a rash.”  Then her phone rang, and she went off to talk to a client.  By the time she got back, Bec and I had had A Talk.

“We’ve been thinking,” I said.  “And you’re underselling yourself.  We’re pretty sure you could do it in five hundred, tops.”

“…What?”

“A million years is a long time,” I explained.  “That’s, like, twenty thousand of your lifetimes to date.  If you’d really thought about it, I’m sure you could knock it out of the park in a few centuries.”

“…knock what?”

“Guessing what would give you a rash.  Admittedly, it’s pretty specific, but if you do it full-time…”

“Wait a minute!” Gini said.  “I get bored after five minutes of guessing games with you!  I don’t want to spend the next million years endlessly guessing what might give me a rash!  That’s a horrible fate, wandering around for all eternity having to do nothing but wondering what might give me hives!”

“I’ve taken that into account,” I replied serenely.  “I figure it’ll take you two centuries of wandering the Earth, resenting your status, lamenting to a cold and uncaring God the strange and inexplicable task he has bequeathed to you and you alone.  After that: three centuries of daily guessing.  Tops.”

Soon after that, we got into a debate about whether we were having a debate or an argument.  Good times, good times.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Gini went to Teavana this weekend and almost drowned in pretention.

Teavana, if you do not know, is a store that doesn’t sell what you think it sells.  You might think it sells tea.  But what it actually purveys is an experience.  This is why the store is beautifully painted, and all the teas come in beautiful canisters, and when you read the descriptions of the sample teas available they sound like they’re a rare museum piece brought here by hand, from specially-trained Sherpas, from Mars.

It made me want to stand in the middle of the store and shout, “YOU’RE DRINKING LEAVES, PEOPLE!  LEAVES IN HOT WATER!”

Ah, but I cannot truly mock pretention, because there are things that mash my “Pretentious Douche” button hard.  Whenever I go to The Velvet Tango Room, home of exotic alcohol mixtures, I’m transformed into some snobby jerkhole who talks about top notes and his distaste for chartreuse… and I love it.  I love feeling like hundreds of people have slaved to bring me something rare and grand and noble that only We Fine Few can appreciate properly.  What I am imbibing – for a Pretentious Douche never “drinks” – is a heady blend of flavors and beauty that one must sit down to savor.  It makes me feel like a king of old, all for sixteen bucks a drink.

Done properly, I can cosplay Croesus on a George Bailey budget.

Clearly, given that Starbucks took something most of America used to view on the level of Twinkies and turned it into a four-buck-a-cup experience, one can take any drink and Experiencize it.  (One eagerly awaits the “Chill Assistance” store, wherein the various rare flavors of Kool-Aid are presented as magnificent subtleties for your tastebudding pleasure.)

The question is, is there anything we can’t Experiencize?  Is there anything humans do that we can’t apply the magic formula to?  The magic formula of:

  • Take an ordinary, everyday thing;
  • Create it from exotic, hard-to-find materials either shipped here from afar or grown locally and organically at great expense;
  • Have copywriters describe the ordinary, everyday thing in sweeping detail, so you’re forced to pay attention to every detail and start analyzing bits about this experience you never would have before;
  • Charge an assload for it, so it feels like this thing must be worth money now that you’ve paid ten bucks for it instead of fifty cents.

To verify this, I want to create a store called “Undercarriage,” a store devoted entirely to the sale of premium blends of toilet paper.  Oh, we all have our favorites already, don’t we?  Thick-ply vs thin-ply?  But what happens when you experience:

The French Curl: This rare moire watered silk blend was originally meant for Imperial usage only, famed by King Louis XIV as the only fabric smooth enough to satisfy his stylish brand of royalty.  An organza overlay gives this unparalleled cleansing material a hint of massaging purity as it excels at buffing away the clumpier waste materiel, and a hint of enfleuraged jasmine and sandalwood will leave you feeling like a monarch.  $20 per bundle, $7 for the pocketbook pack.

Think I’m kidding?  I’m pretty sure if I had the money to create a store where there were charts to find the perfect cleansing experience based on your diet, lots of references to ayurvedic medicine that mention speeding through such an essential element of life is why mankind is so stressed these days, saying that a stronger brand of cleansing material is needed to let you appreciate the sensuality of getting in touch with your body, and wham!  I’m an ass-millionaire.

You folks better hope I don’t become rich enough to start a store like this.  If I ever became rich, I’d make millions.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

(NOTE: I originally posted this at FetLife as a humor piece, but figured it was amusing enough to post over here.  We’ll see how it goes.)

Looking over the FetLife profiles, it seems like “Dom” is the ideal career choice for the older gentleman who wants to get laid… So imagine my thrill! Here I am at 42, starting to pick up the whip! I thought my sexual career was over, but here I have at least another decade left in me!

Alas, I don’t have the look. I’m gonna need the look to get the babes. At least according to what I’m seeing on FetLife.

First thing I have to do is stop all of this inopportune smiling. I must always fix the camera with a steely glare, as though the camera was very naughty and needed to be punished. Perhaps, occasionally, rarely, a smirk may peek from the corner of my mouth, as though I am faintly amused at all of your frantic antics. But not often. For guffawing is not the realm of the True Dom.

Doms do not smileyface in texts. Ever. You can tell. Doms are SRS BUSNESS.

Next, I need to either scale up or scale down. Right now I’m a middlin’ tub o’lard – decent arms, beer belly, man-tits of maybe an A-cup. When I jog, things go swinging, but not enough to hit me in the face.

Ah! But the True Doms seem to come in one of two flavors. Either they’re elderly and musclebound, with that sort of workout fiber that says “MY FLESH WANTS TO SAG, BUT I STAPLE IT TO THIS HE-MAN PHYSIQUE SO ALL YOU NOTICE ARE SLIGHT RIPPLES OVER MY ROCK-HARD ABS.” Then I just wear a hat and leather chaps and wander around all day baring my gray-haired chest at people like it was Superman’s S.

Or I go the other route – gain a hundred pounds. Just get that big ol’ torture-room belly where I eventually look like the Rancor keeper, the look that says, “See that? Fuck you, society. I look like this, and I’m still gonna walk around in a loincloth. Because I don’t play by YOUR RULES. I am so confident that I will redefine cultural hotness just by LOOKING AT YOU, a black hole of expectation-twisting manliness!”

Then, of course, I have to shave my head. Can’t be a big ol’ torturer without a smooth pate.

Look how wrong my default picture is! No True Dom would ever have a default picture showing a lemur on his head. No, that lemur is topping me, my smile showing that I’m too willing to please, my face either too flabby or not flabby enough. I need a gaunt picture of me, perhaps at an SCA festival, impassively wrestling a lemur to the ground to show it who’s boss. THAT’S a Dom shot.

Then again, my photos are all wrong. The big problem? They’re of me. True Doms are all Leica experts, people who spend a lot of time in the darkroom perfecting glorious photos and videos of their subs. The goal of a True Dom isn’t to show what they look like, but rather to show off their attractive collection of half-naked women, a kind of fleshy charm-bracelet to jangle at other potential subs. It’s a way of saying, “Hey, this club’s full of hot women, and you could be a part of it! Fill out this application, we’ll talk to the bouncer. You can be a part of my kinky Borg collective.”

Of course, that means as a True Dom Old Guy, I’ll need to assemble my squadron of hard-bodied twenty-three-year-olds. They’re obligatory. You can’t get into the official Dom Resting Room at the airport without them (which is a lovely secret chamber to rest in between flights, with a St. Andrew’s cross and cigars and kneeling waitresses). I’ll need to get about seven or eight of them, perhaps hanging around the graduation ceremonies at Florida State University to try to pick some up on their way out the door.

Okay, sure, maybe there’s something a little weird in mackin’ on someone five years’ younger than my daughter, but here’s the trick: All those young women with the smoking hot bodies and the uncertainty inherent of being in your early twenties and not sure where you want to go with your life and the sexy pouty mouths and the willingness to try anything for the first time?

They’re all very mature for their age.

Truth, man. Every one of them, amazingly, is not just model-hot and willing to try anything at least once, but by some bizarre coincidence they’ve all got this intense wisdom that makes them, oh, just really so much smarter than everyone else their age. Except for these seven other identically-hot women over here of the same age that I happen to be playing with, they’re also all strangely wise beyond their years and also model-hot. But you? You’re special. Here, have a glass of good wine.

So yeah. I’m doin’ it wrong. I need to start bulking up one way or the other, and wrassle a lemur, and remove all these inconvenient smiling pictures. Then I’ll be on my way to a lifetime of hot babe-sex. What could be better?

Domminess, here I come.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

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