Bonding over Bitching

I work in an office of women and it’s quite discouraging.  Through the course of a single day, the topics of conversation include: Reality T.V, how much they hate their bodies, celebrities, plastic surgery, cosmetics, and how annoying their kids/boyfriends/husbands are.  I have never had much in common with women, especially the “modern” woman.  Perhaps my lack of appreciation for the modern women stems from my facing constant rejection by many of them due to the way I live my life.  I am openly submissive.  I love my husband and he rarely annoys me.  I enjoy meeting his needs, and I love to take care of him in any way necessary.  I don’t like to be an inconvenience to him and I refuse to be a nag.  Thus, I have a relationship that is relatively free from any resentments or drama, save the occasional squabble over something stupid like him not picking something out for dinner off his bi-weekly menu I make him.  We have a relationship that, I would deem, comes as close to perfection as possible. My relationship and my lifestyle, it would appear, would be the cause of my lack of steady female companionship. I am rarely unhappy with any part of my personal life or myself, so I appear haughty I’m female circles. The perception of haughtiness is threatening and the antithesis to female bonding over bitching.

I also don’t hate my body.  I appreciate my body.  I am happy with the way it looks and feel very comfortable naked.  If I come into a pattern of low self-esteem over something about my body, I’ll make an expeditated move to fix it in whatever manner possible.  If I feel like I’m hanging onto a few extra pounds, I amp up my workouts and cut back on some of the foods that could be holding me back from my goal.  I have nothing against plastic surgery, and may find myself in need of some in the future.  But, I don’t see a need to discuss it at length with other women. How does airing discomfort provide comfort? Can women only dish a complement without the need for one in return if they perceive themselves as equal or better than the person they are paying the compliment to?

How does this fix anything?  How does this make these women feel better?  Perhaps, female comradery is built upon a foundation of self-hate and negativity. Do women have to demean themselves to find acceptance from other women and feel as though they fit in?  Why are the lives of celebrities (or their assumed lives based upon what the media portrays) fascinating enough to cover the span of an hour or more in near constant communication?  Who the fuck cares? Any significant amount of time spent discussing celebrities is an utter waste of time. If each moment brings us closer to our death, I don’t want to spend it discussing the Kardashians for an hour.

My life experience thus far has revealed that to share a relationship of any depth with another woman you must be at least mildly miserable with yourself and your life.  You must enjoy complaining.  Complaining seems to be the very thread essential to the fiber of the female friendship. People within earshot of such pointless, meaningless and seemingly endless jabber should be the newest victims to form a hashtag movement. Are you having to listen to women bonding over bitching and it’s making you miserable? #metoo.


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I do believe there is nothing quite as sobering as having someone you love tell you they were diagnosed with cancer.  But, for me, she is not simply a loved one.  I don’t let a lot of people in.  I thrive in extremes, so I either uphold a person as someone of incredible value to my life, or someone that can pass through aimlessly as they please.  Of course, with the latter, I don’t give much care or consideration but ample freedom and an available ear.  I struggle to manage the intense responsibility I feel for the people I love, so I limit whom I give it to.  I have been disappointed too many times at people’s lack of integrity, that I keep most people at arm’s length.  They say that love is an infinite resource, and although I would love to agree, I cannot.  Personally, my love is finite.  My heart is a capsule with only so much room.  I divide it amongst the few people I would die for and I love them with reckless abandon.  She’s one of them.  She’s a warm, soft cashmere.  She’s a radiant light in a world full of dim, flitting embers.  She’s strong as oak; yet, presently a trembling leaf holding to the branch with but a thin stem.  I can’t protect her.  My loyalty can’t make this better.  My steadfast dedication can’t shield the cold zephyr of the shadow at her back.  I can’t do a fucking thing but watch her fear and watch her fight.  I feel like a rabid dog on a leash with nothing to attack but an apparition, a crazed bitch barking at the air.  He’s holding my leash and keeping me steady, tethered as I bark tirelessly.  Tethered to my greatest source of strength.  Tethered to my beloved.

The largest portion of my heart belongs to him.  He is my King, and I am forever the warrior at his side.  If I lose him, I die.  There is no in-between.  No survival.  No desire.  No life.  Not because I can’t survive, but because I won’t want to.  She held the other spot of the greatest value and some fucking ghost permeated my defenses and is threatening one of my two greatest allies.  Powerless, a resonating message keeps repeating itself in my head:

Time is dwindling down your army, warrior.  Time is an impossible weapon to fight.

I’m grasping for resources and there he is, at my side.  My battle tested right-hand man.  My life’s purpose.  He’s here, and at least as we watch each other age, I see nothing but beauty in it.  We have our spears in hand, and with each kiss we thrust forward, piercing through fear’s frail skin.  I have you, I have all I need.

In the darkness of our room late last night, you pressed your lips to mine.  The full, softness of them comforting a beaten soul, a tepid cloth to the wound.  I pulled you on top of me and wrapped my arms and legs around your body like a cocoon to the moth.  Entering my body, my embrace pressing you as close to my flesh as materially possible.  My body’s feeble attempt to physically convey my undying dedication to loving you, protecting you.  As if acknowledging that I cannot fix her, but I can block anything from getting to you.  My love a forcefield from all the specters that threaten you.

Get me first.  Here I am, you fucking phantom!  You got one; but, you let him be! Phantom, get at me!

And I held you there within me, gently rocking my hips into you, running my hands up and down the muscular terrain of your back, flooding pleasure over the pain affecting both of our hearts.  The breath of your life upon the nape of my neck to the pattern of our swaying bodies.  Your breath permeating the very thickness of my skin, you breathe life into me.  In turn, I dedicate my life to you.  I give my body to you.  I’ve handed over my very soul countless times.  Here I am again, offering you all that I have.  You always want me.  You want me even when I’m broken.  I am forever yours.  Yours after time claims all my pieces.  Placing my body over yours, it will need to get through me first.  Yours before and after my final battle with the wraith.

Interlude 3

The dimly lit room, a sensual haven, a nirvana for two. Perched atop your muscular thighs, my protector a pedestal for his ultimate high. Fleshy breasts laid bare, begging to be devoured, dancing before his rapacious stare. Full lips, wrapped eagerly around my erected nipple, steady in spite of my gyrating hips. An occupied left makes for fervent right, a drop of honey, an alluring amber light. Like a jewel upon a pillow of plush, a stroke of your tongue, a lifter from the lush. Abandoning the left to devour the right, a new honey jewel to entice your bite. A nibble to the pink perky skin, rendering sparks of my nerves, warming my sin. A dessert you consume like a decadent dream, not made of sugar, not made of cream.



The first thing I did when I got home was strip off my top and hold each breast within each hand.  I kneaded them between my fingers, the flesh extending through the spaces in between my fingers like porcelain colored dough.  I relished the warmth of them against the palms of my hands, the blood accumulating there in response to my stimulation.  I ran my erect nipples through each separated digit like a flapper on a prize wheel, closing my eyes and appreciating the sensitivity I’ve been afforded with these glorious accumulations of tissue.  I held my breasts in my hands, for what must have been over twenty minutes, appreciating the natural texture of my flesh and the intricate network nerves, tissues and glands that nestles below.  I tugged and pinched my nipples in between my fingers and watched as the skin stretched outward and rebounded back into a perfect mound of taught flesh.  I thought heavily about what I would do if I were to lose these, seemingly pointless (as I’ve never had nor wanted children), breasts that I’ve connected with on a far more intimate level than ever in my past.  The thought brought a mist to my eyes.  Although my femininity consists of far more than my breasts, I’d be lying to say that I don’t associate a healthy amount of pride toward my breasts and how they make me feel, so deliciously, female.

I didn’t always have such a fond relationship with my chest.  I seemed to have jumped from a mere flat chested little girl to a full C overnight at the turning of my 10th birthday. The boys would stare whenever we played sports, and since I was a tomboy running with a large group of athletic boys in the neighborhood, that just wouldn’t do.  I began to wear multiple sports bras and, literally, tape my breasts with duct tape over an undershirt.  I didn’t start appreciating the luscious allure of plump cleavage until much later in my teens.  From that point on, I had a healthy obsession with breasts and found myself drawn to women with ample, natural bosoms.  Now, breasts are often the focus of my porn endeavors.  I usually separate my porn watching habits into two distinct categories.  I am usually in the mood for either traditional/vanilla porn, or more often, some incredibly kinky (no one else, besides my King, knows I watch this kind of shit) porn.  In any case, the female lead must have large breasts.  Some of the sexiest GIFs locked up in the recesses of my dirty mind are the most basic black and white images of a stubbly, hyper-masculine looking man diving head first between two perky tits, only to emerge and sink an erect nipple into his mouth and suck until his cheeks concave. Such an image makes me think of my nipples in my man’s mouth, to which I’m hard pressed to find a better feeling outside of one generated by his cock.  But, this feeling of appreciation for my breasts extended far beyond the sexual benefits they afford me.  I began to understand how much my breasts are a part of my identity of a woman.  I often speak of enjoying being an active part of a patriarchal society, to include being sexualized as a woman.  Breasts are not only a thing of sustenance, they are an icon of beauty, a force of power, symbols of utter femininity.  However, a recent event taught me just how much I identify with my bountiful breasts and the experience will accompany me for a lifetime…

I sat nervously in the chair in the doctor’s office watching the ultrasound machine images flashing before my eyes, and I began to appreciate the breast on a whole new level.  On an ultrasound machine, the breast tissue appears like clouds composed of various shades of gray.  In a way,  as I watched the probe traverse the terrain of her breast, the image resembled a moving overcast sky.  I continued to watch the rolling clouds until they appeared to part, revealing a patch of black sky, like a specter of doom forecasting events to come.  The probe rolled back and forth over the shadow, which appeared more as a void than the ominous “thing” that is truly is.  “If this is what I think it is, then take them BOTH,” she exclaimed.  I reassured her, although an honest reaction, it is too soon for such demands.  “I don’t care.  I want to make sure there is nothing left to attack,” she remarks abruptly.  You could hear the contempt for her breasts in her tone.  Her breasts had become two twin adversaries standing in the way of her survival.  What I see as two beautiful symbols of femininity are turned, in her opinion, to a despised enemy within mere minutes.  To be so willing to part with such a beautiful part of the female form, although totally understandable, shocked me to my core.  Her reaction caused my mind to wonder…

Will I ever see my breasts as the source of utter anguish?

Will I ever hear myself command a doctor to remove my breasts from my very chest?

Will that shadow ever cross the screen of one of my ultrasounds?

I’m not as strong as her…

I instantly became more aware of the heaviness of my full chest, appreciating the way my breasts sat supported in the cup of my bra.  I drew my attention to the tingly pressure of my erected nipples from the cold office.  I folded my arms under them, feeling the weight of my breasts resting on my crossed forearms.  I could smell the rose scented oil radiating off the tops of my full breasts.  I thought to myself how much I adore my breasts.  I have kept that perspective in mind with each passing day since.  I’m going to appreciate my breasts every day that I have them, use them for all their glorious abilities, because I’ll never know if a shadow may someday take them away.

Turkey and Misogyny


I woke up this Thanksgiving morning to a hard cock parting my plush rounded ass cheeks.  As the length of him submerged between them, he trailed the head of his cock through my velvet flesh, parting my pink pussy lips with the thickness of him.  His cock immediately slicked with his cum trickling from inside of me where he released hours before.  Reaching around my body, he took his thick, calloused hand and wrapped it around my neck, squeezing.  His vascular forearm nestled between my ample breasts, pulling my body into his as he thrusts his solid cock inside of me.  His thrust forces the concoction of our cum to trail down his length and pool around the base of his shaft.  I feel his coarse body hair against my back and his thick beard brushing the back of my neck. His breath is heavy, and his moans are deliciously low, a primal rumble from deep inside his chest. I could swear I absorb every drop of his masculinity through all of my senses, permeating the very pores of my skin.

I get high off of his masculinity, the opposite that makes me whole.  In nearly every moment of the day, I am reminded about how grateful I am to have a man who fearlessly embraces his masculinity, and not in a way that mainstream society would find acceptable.  My man is a devout believer in patriarchy and as ironic as it sounds, a loving misogynist.  Although this may not work for many women in today’s society, I thrive off of his belief in being superior to me in most ways.  I am not his equal, a belief we both share, and that belief is in no way a threat to me or my sense of self.  Conversely, his embracing his masculinity apart and separate from the feminine is exactly what heightens my sense of femininity in myself.  You see, my personal belief is that a man that embraces feminism, or routinely touts gender equality, is simultaneously diminishing his own masculinity.  I appreciate the more traditional aspects of how relationships and marriage used to be.  Men are being demonized daily; meanwhile, many women are sitting back, spectating or even supporting such movements whilst chanting, “We don’t need a man!”

Well, I do.

I don’t just want my man. I mentally, physically, emotionally, psychologically and in every way imaginable NEED my man.  He is the counterpart to my greatest attributes, ones in which he cannot embody nor desires to embody.  I am the perfect counterpart to his greatest attributes, ones in which I cannot and do not wish to embody.  By embracing our inequality we cultivate a organic equilibrium within our bond.  Power struggles do not find life in our home.  My husband and I do not fight over who gets to wear the pants.  He does.  Give me the dress and heels.  I want absolutely nothing to do with those pants; I couldn’t possibly fill them as perfectly as he does, and thus, suit him so much better than they ever could me.

I feel the modern day woman is doing a disservice to both themselves and men that women will soon (if they are not already) live to regret.  For every time a woman chants, “I don’t need a man”, are they not also acknowledging that men don’t need THEM?  As women preoccupy themselves with raising fists in opposition of the patriarchy, how could men not begin to disassociate themselves from women?  Why would a man choose the limp embrace of a woman who (admittedly) doesn’t need him, when he could find comfort in the arms of a woman who does?  Why would a man appreciate and value a woman for her femininity if he is not validated, acknowledged, and respected for what makes him naturally different?  In modern day, heterosexual relationships*, our quests for equality is perpetuating a divide between the couple and dissolves intimacy.  Viewing themselves as “equal” does not guarantee a more fair, loving, and nurturing relationship; On the contrary, by not embracing what makes us so beautifully different and complementary, we are neglecting the validation of such admirable qualities in our partner.  Sameness is boring.  While equality may be seen as more “fair”, it certainly is not more balanced.  The balance exists when two people can accept where their partner far surpasses their capabilities, is acknowledged for those gifts, and by association, acknowledges the converse of such gifts in their partner.

This morning, as my glorious husband pushed his thick cock inside of my tight pussy, two uniquely different bodies were made whole.  His strong, masculine body pressed against the smooth, healthy, feminine shape of mine leaves me in revere of our differences.  His grasp leaves me feeling secure and safe.  He would risk his life for me and I dedicate mine to his.  I admire him, and in such admiration, I find him to be my BETTER half.  I do not see him as my equal and I am grateful for my position.  In my position I am treasured, taken care of, and admired in a way that no “strong, independent” woman could be.  Yes, I absolutely need my man.

Now, I’m going to go bake a cake in all my domestic goddess femininity and enjoy him devouring my “cake” later.

*I emphasize this because I have no knowledge or personal experience to reflect upon any other kind of relationship; thus, have no business making assumptions about them.