You do not own title on your lover. You simply have lease on a part of their lives, whether you’re married or not. It is always, always, always in your best interest that your lover maintain some of their privacy and “me” time.

That’s what Steff says in a long post that makes some really good points. But I wonder…..is it ever a good idea to think that you own part of your lover? Steff’s right, nobody “owns title” on a lover, but even the idea of having a “lease on part of their lives” squicks me. To me that sounds too much like “I own this part of you,” and I usually have a hard enough time controlling my life to want the extra work of controlling part of somebody else’s.

D/s play is separate from my point. There, all parties agree on how the games go, and they’re there because they want to be there. They’re choosing. If there’s relationship papers involved, titles or leases or whatever, then some amount of choice gets lost. Maybe that works for some people, but not for me. What Steff said made me understand that J is good for me because right now he can’t own me, he’s still married although I guess that’s just technically since the divorce is going through the courts now. We just get together when we can and have the fun that we both want to have. I hope that doesn’t change once he’s divorced.

Speaking of J, he’s been out of town for awhile. Last night he sent me an email “Thinking of You,” and all it contained was the words to the song Black and Blue. “The harder the better, let’s do it ’til we’re black and blue”……I think we might be on the same page after all! I might get to find out this weekend, keep your fingers crossed for me!

I doubt there’s a man alive who hasn’t noticed that, as a good rule of thumb, if you pay for stuff when you’re with a woman of interest, you’re more likely to gain her affections. Some men draw the wrong lesson from this, and conclude that all women are “whores”. (Oddly enough, this soon becomes true for them; pretty quick the only women in their lives are ones who trade faux affection for money and loot.)

Smart guys know better. Smart guys know that a generously applied wallet is a form of hospitality; it’s a means of expressing your willingness to take care of a lady. And there ain’t hardly anybody in this world who doesn’t enjoy being taken care of, whether they need it or not.

And, it works. Just ask Midwest:

I know that it sounds weird, and I reiterate that’s it’s not about the money, but it’s very sexy when a guy insists on paying. It’s a manly-man thing to do. It communicates the desire to take care of me. I think it appeals to a biological drive to be cared for by men.

I realize that’s not P.C. to say, and women very well may not need to be taken care of, but it feels nice when we are. Being around him – having him pick up the checks, cover the gas and open my doors – makes me feel more feminine. And in turn, I view him as more masculine.

Suddenly the sweet lil’ pup at the copy machine has morphed into a hunky mountain climber with big guns, solid quads and a generous spirit.

And I kind of have a crush on him.

I differ from the usual run of sex bloggers in that I’m not as urban as seems to be the norm. My roots are rural, and I don’t freak out when the only coffee in the county is called “coffee” and costs less than a buck.

So I can tell you with some authority that there remain, in this vast country of ours, a fair few young men whose entire ambition is to get some land, plant it, find a good farm wife, and settle down to a life of endless unremunerative hard labor. The good farm wife, as you can imagine, is a very important factor in this bucolic vision of paradise.

Thus I can well imagine the reaction of some young rural swain as he spies this Venus arising from the stock-watering tank:

And the reaction is this: “Yup, she’ll do.”

Hey, at least he knows she knows how to ride a pitchfork.

Picture is from Usenet.

Farmboyz seems to put a lot of thought into his shaving:

I left the bedroom without answering him. I began to collect what I would need, and that included my thoughts about doing this. Within seconds of his request, I had decided that shaving Jamie would not be much of a turn-on for me, but that I did love seeing the way passion wracked his slender body, making his back arch like the flare of a sunspot, and causing the shaking muscles of his legs to knot. With this in mind, I was curious to see what heightened reactions this ritual might produce. He was calling me from the bed.

“Just a minute. I’m getting some stuff together for this.”

I opened the linen closet and collected my favorite faded soft blue towel in the folds of which you may hear the ocean. In the bathroom, a fresh double-edged Good News razor and a can of mentholated Gillette Foamy. I would need a bowl of water, and once I had selected that bowl and filled it, there would be nothing left to delay my return to the bedroom. I stood in the pantry, fussing over this decision.

I thought about the young man in my bed who was calling my name. I felt as if I were about to be admitted into the last room of him, and that once I had inspected its contents, I’d be slipping out the back door, with no farewells, and with no intention of returning. Jamie might remain with me for days or weeks longer, but there would be distance between us that he would not notice.

I stretched to reach a high shelf, pulling down an old stoneware bowl, the bottom of which was incised with “Ruckel’s Pottery, 1870, White Hall, Ill.” It was glazed with the same cornflower blue of the towel. Men with eyes of this color can own me if they wish. Jamie’s eyes were this color.

I wondered what the previous owners of this bowl would feel about its imminent employment. Sensible women of the heartland. Daughters of the pioneers, preparing simple food grown on their plains, gently hand washing this bowl for decades, keeping it bright and flawless. I saw them with their hands folded in their laps, seated on small chairs in a circle around the bed, around Jamie, who is smiling up at me as I return to the bedroom, his knees drawn up to his chin and his dick drooping like a sprig of lilac onto the dark sheets.

But don’t he write purty?

I’m going to do something I rarely do, and quote another blogger’s post in its entirety. I don’t think Violet Blue will mind, because it’s an important message that’s not readily excerpted:

So I escaped my sex writing hamster wheel for a few minutes and went out with this guy the other night. Things went swimmingly. We made tentative plans to see each other again this weekend. The next day, there is a message from him on my voicemail, telling me that his ex-girlfriend doesn’t want him to see me again.

Um… I hate pointing out obvious things. But it seems to me that the ability to label objects is such a crucial life skill that it is one we learn in childhood and perfect long enough to outwit natural selection. Labeling is the basis for navigating the world. It is the essence of being able to call things what they are. Confusing that, I think, leads one down a road that eventually has one confusing the labels “Drano” and “Pellegrino”.

I’m just sayin’.

Oh, to be the nettle that knows the touch of a sub’s lips:

The picture of nettles at the Urtication site linked above got me thinking…..those nettles look so much like mint…..could nettles be edible? Why, yes! This Sado-botany nettle FAQ has alot more information, but alas, no recipes.

So don’t throw your greens away when you’re done playing with your sub – make some soup or a nettle fritatta. Sex juices on them would just add extra-yummy flavor.

Picture is from the Urtication website.

Sometimes I think I grow jaded. My first thought, upon seeing this vintage whipping illustration from Spanking Blog, was: “Why is she wearing his hat?”