The lessons I got from the (blessedly) few times I allowed some moke to get creative were
- It is always and forever about them.
- It never ever has anything to with what might spice things up for me. (like fucking foreplay, you bovine shitheel?). I should buy thigh highs and Merry Widows and high heels for you? Really?
- They had seen it on a porn movie, so clearly I was supposed to be writhing, moaning, and shrieking with pleasure. I don’t get paid enough (and most certainly by one of these meatheads who called himself a BF) to put on that kind of performance, particularly when there is nothing in it for me. Especially titillation or an orgasm. And since I don’t happen to be a sex worker, kindly help me understand why it’s my job to make you feel like Mr. Wonderful when you don’t bother to reciprocate?
- They had no clue what they were doing, or why. Kinda helps, butthead.
- As a partner, I didn’t exist except as something to be used, manipulated and shaped into something else other than who I was, which was a mature woman with sexual needs, preferences and particulars about which fuckwit could have cared less.
Which is why, at 66, and boyfriend-less now since January, I really wonder if I give a flying crap any more. I’ve had far too many partners and found all but perhaps 1% so inept, so selfish, so wanting and so monumentally uninformed, uninterested and unconcerned about a woman’s needs that I frankly would these days rather pull dandelions out of my lawn.
That at least pays off.
Is there hope? Vienna De Vega would argue yes. But she has a lovely lover (god bless her too) and I do not, and after all these years of searching/hoping/hanging out for a Good One…well.
That at least gives me some satisfaction. And I don’t have to put on black panty hose to do it, either. When I am done with the little shits I can throw them into my garbage can and be done with them, much the way far too many men treat their women’s needs. And their women.