Satin

Take a post, take a drag, take a shit. But you don't do you? You give it? Or do you? Take it, I mean? That would be weird. Yes, it really would. Even for you. I wouldn't know what to think, but I'd know how to react. As if there's any 'knowing' in reacting, rather than just a gut-busting 'eurgh' as revulsion shivers its way through you and on to its next victim, leaving an after-taste of embarrassment and an almost-desire for the quiet life, that's soon forgotten in the warmth of the telling that it's not about you.

I knew someone once who did that. Couldn't be bothered to get out of bed. Overcame whatever it was he had to and lay there, next to his deposit.

It changes your perception of someone: that.

I guess Freud wasn't quite right about it though: cause unless it's a fella looking for an extra tight hole, no-one's anal, are they? Apart from the fella and his new bed fellow.

And outside of the stories of play, there's work. That's just another excuse for a form of regulated play cause the job's so dead it'd drive you funcking (sic) mad if you took it seriously. So you try to interact, mano a mano or, preferably, mano a womano, to make it through the goddamn awful day that pays so little you have to source your kicks budget-stylee. And a little goes a long way. And too much is too serious. Keep it tight, keep it lite. Don't get serious, that's when the shit hits. And nobody likes serious. We'll leave that outside the door and hope it's cleaned better than our shoes.

Appreciation shows in her moans. You'd think it was real, if you cared. You'd think it was for you, except...hold on: you do.

You paid for the fuckin room, you paid for the hire of the hand-crafted shades and furntiture made by peasants, who you refuse to acknowledge were better than your forebears so it is for you. You paid for it and those moans are the appreciation of your wad.

Different kind of wad, but not. It'll be both. The story. The story you tell that has two sides that'll never meet. Although you might. Again.