Welcome back!

Well, today is my birthday and several important things happen on my birthday every year.

1 – No one gives a shit because that drama queen Jesus is having his birthday also.

2 – I try not to take myself too seriously.

3 – I want someone to give me spankings.

So, this picture sort of encompasses all of those emotions. First, Jesus never wears a thong, so he isn’t as deserving of your birthday attention. Second, my cat is silently judging me while I attempt to take this picture. I could have cropped that out but it was too hilarious to edit. Third, spankings, get on top of that!

I’ve never really been on a date before. My history with men and women is brief and the only dates to speak of have been awkward couplings for high school and middle school dances. At least 2 of them were gay anyway. You must be wondering how I have had a boyfriend for 3 years without dating him at some point. To be honest, we just sort of segued from not being together to being exclusive in a seamless fashion. Some making out seems to have facilitated it. There were no dinners or movies or anything of the like. Just kissin’ and then more than kissin’.

This realization has made me learn that I don’t know how to negotiate the territory of a date very well. I’m not really sure what is expected of me in such an encounter and I don’t know how to communicate my interests very well. Why do I need to know how to date when I already have an awesome boyfriend? Well, I am looking into finding other partners to have sex with. It seems like for most people dating is a pleasant prelude to bumping uglies. So I need to learn how to play that game.

Am I doing this all backwards? Are there any tricks I need to know? I obviously need to negotiate this differently than I would if I was looking for a relationship. Am I over-analysing?

I got out of the house tonight, setting aside a paper on masculinity in the works of Kate Chopin in order to be social for awhile.

These are 27 to 35 year old former gutter punks, college DJs, and local band members. They would be townies if this wasn’t a city. They enjoy the newest hip dive bar with an undetached irony. I know the bartenders/owners and about half the people here. The fire marshall has the place rated for 67 occupants and there are at least 150 people crammed wall to wall.

The gimmick for the night is a Ramone’s cover band called the Whoremoans. There is a female lead singer and she isn’t trying to be sexy. Instead she plays the part totally straight and the effect is hot. In fact, none of the women at the bar are dressed in “Slutty ” costumes. One friend is a turd, another a stalk of broccoli (with cheese), and the real life Greaser couple is (you guessed it) dead Greasers.

The music isn’t sexy at all, it is dirty and loud and adolescent. That is what the Ramones are after all. And the mood doesn’t really take hold until people start spraying the band with beer.

There is no stage, but if there were one, my proximity would be front and center. I get nearly impaled with the neck of the bass a few times and bear the brunt of several misguided splashes of PBR. I don’t particularly give a shit because dancing is a bit too fun at the moment to watch out that my feet aren’t stepped on.

Gizmo wins the costume contest in a best out of 3 wrestling match against Master Shake. I hear an acquaintance who is in a sleazy garage rock band and no doubt a graphic designer by day, explain that Shake is “too fucking trendy and topical.”

It takes me a half hour to sign my tab for two drinks. I never think to bring cash on the busiest nights at a place like this. Nonetheless, I’ve only said hello to a fraction of the people, so my wait at the bar is a good chance to make small talk and oggle clever costumes before heading home.

Believe it or not, this makes me horny.

Last night I spent some time at the laundromat and while I had a magazine with me to read, I forgot to grab my notPod on the way out the door. For this reason, my mind was left to wander as I folded my laundry. I realized a few amusing things:
a. thongs can’t be folded, there isn’t enough fabric to do anything with;
b. there is no fully logical pile of garments to sort a dildo harness into, slipping it in with the bras will have to do.

However, the primary thing that I noticed is that my balance of sexy/cute panties versus boring/plain ones has decidedly shifted. When I started seeing my boyfriend, C, I owned exactly zero pairs of sexy/cute panties. Seriously. In fact, it never even occurred to me to get any – I didn’t think I was sexy or cute, why should my panties be? This means that I didn’t have a single pair that didn’t come in a 6-pack wrapped in plastic. The most daring deviation from this standard were a few pairs in pink.

The first time we fooled around, it suddenly struck me that I was wearing ridiculous panties for the occasion. I was embarrassed and apologized to C; he assured me that he didn’t care and I was dreadfully sexy. I wasn’t yet in a place to believe this. However, after that first weekend together was over I asked him if he would like me to buy some sexier underthings. He insisted that it wasn’t necessary but admit that it would be nice. Those first purchases were very tame and from JC Penny (no joke!) but he was transfixed by a particular pair of sheer backed, lacey, black briefs I chose. They are still his favorites out of my entire underwear collection. It is a comfort to think of all of the times that I have felt his hands caress my rear through that specific piece of thin material.

As I folded laundry, I kept the panties in discreet piles, dividing them between sexy and non-sexy. When I was done, the cute underwear won out by a landslide. I realized that the last time I purchased white cotton briefs was 10 months ago when I was preparing for a trip to Turkey and a new 12-pack seemed comforting and logical. The remaining pairs from that purchase seemed sad and weak compared to the tantalizing pile beside them. There were full-lace boy shorts and low cut briefs with various silly patterns (Superman, Hello Kitty, unicorns, butterflies, flowers – even a polka-dot pair that bears a striking resemblance to a Blogger template). And there were the new additions, the thongs, that I am getting increasingly comfortable with.

It seems silly to measure myself against the vibrancy and diversity of my panty drawer. Aside from being an incredibly consumer-oriented approach, can I really say that my sexual awakening is manifested through these eye-catching bits of fabric? Oddly enough, I think I can. In the past 6 months (roughly since the start of this blog) purchasing these sorts of panties has become a given, I don’t really consider the boring ones anymore. Additionally, I have stopped wholly considering my boyfriend when making the purchase. There was a time when I couldn’t wait for him to see new underthings when I got them – I guess I wanted his approval. Now I have come to a place where I certainly love showing them off to him but it doesn’t seem necessary. I can enjoy these pretty things for myself because I am comfortable in my own skin.

The first time C licked my pussy, he had to wrestle white granny panties out of the way for access. The most recent time, he slipped his fingers under the lacy waist band of a black thong and teased my clit with his tongue through the thin panel of sheer material covering my pussy. In the 3 years that have transpired between these two instances, it is clear to me that not just the panties have changed, but also the woman inside them.

I spent about 7 hours today working on making a ‘zine with a friend. Not a webzine, not even a real print magazine. No, an old-school, glue sticks and tiny scraps of paper ‘zine. It was frustrating and tactile and incredibly awesome. I’m pretty sure that making a ‘zine is the opposite of blogging. Computers were not involved in the layout at all.

The reason that I mention this is because despite the fact that I am writing about something so insanely physical, blogging is incredibly ephemeral. I wish the product were more tactile in the end. Assembling the ‘zine today, it was nice to caress each page as I completed my work, to marvel at how things were coming together. Aside from hugging my laptop (I’ve done it before!) I don’t know how to bring that materialism into blogging. Sometime I find myself writing my blog posts out by hand before typing them up, this isn’t my normal method of composition but it seems right for some reason.

I recently succumbed to my curiousity and purchased a few thongs. I’d never worn one before and didn’t think I wanted to. Then I saw some on sale and they were the type with the thick band of lace all around. I thought they were sort of pretty and the price was right for an experiment. I started out by trying them on. I don’t really care for how they look in front, I prefer a bit more coverage. However, I can’t complain about the effect they have on my rear. I was pretty pleased.

Now, plenty of lingerie might make my ass look good. However the true test is whether I can bear to wear it all day. I normally wear boycut briefs on a daily basis. A thong is the opposite of that. I’ve been wearing my trial thongs on occasion over the past week and am experiencing mixed results. Sometimes, I like the feel of them and the lack of panty lines. Other times I feel like I have a strip of fabric up my ass. I think this feeling originates from the fact that I do have a strip of fabric up my ass. There is a chance that I might get used to it or perhaps I purchased a flawed set of thongs.

Those of you that wear them regularly: Does it get easier? Am I missing something?

Oh, and in case you’re wondering about the picture. In honor of liberating my ass from the thong for today, I thought I would present you a picture of it with nothing on it at all.