It fulfills the nerdy geek in me

You may know or not know (and possibly care or not care) that I’m re-taking the Japanese Proficiency test on December 5th. The first time I took it was during my second year in Japan. At that time, I was attending Japanese language school for four hours a day, five days a week and I had a motivation driving me to study akin to being chased by a rabid dog otherwise known as: you no passy test, you no stay in country.

It’s been several years since that and a few months ago I thought I’d take the opportunity to re-take the test this year – mostly because I’m curious as to how my Japanese is after all these years and also because this year they’ve apparently revamped it and made it a bit ‘harder’.

So I was doing some study today and thinking about what has kept me interested in Japanese for all these years. I’m probably in the minority in that I don’t like anime or manga, which seems to be why everyone else is so enamoured with the language these days, and I don’t have a spouse whom I need to communicate with (anymore…lol), so why do I sit here revising archaic grammar structures and memorizing 26 stroke kanji characters?

It’s so damn quirky, that’s why.

Let’s take an example like twitter.

It’s become all the rage in Japanese twittering to include the words:


With nau coming from the English ‘now’, and it’s used to describe what someone is doing or where they are now. Like Shinjuku nau meaning,”I’m in Shinjuku now”. And dan of course, comes from the English ‘done’ to describe what they have done or what is over, as in Twitter akaunto o sakujo dan meaning, “I’ve just finished deleting my twitter account”.

That sort of language use pushes all my nerdy geek buttons just right.

And another thing that gets the nerdy geek in me hot are homonyms – that’s where you have words with the same pronunciation but different spellings & meanings, like right/write. In English we have a few that transcend all accents like, right/write and a few that may or may not be homonyms depending on where you’re from like, dew/do (which aren’t homonyms for me, but probably are for anyone from the US of A).

Japanese has a shit load of homonyms –  I shit you not. For some pronunciations there are only two or three different sets of characters, but there are many with 7,8,9 and more combinations:

And in another delightfully sick twist, there is a whole other group of words where the ‘meaning’ can be the same, but the usage differs:

And in a similar vein to the homonym thing, there is the whole issue of levels of language whereby you need to use completely different language to say exactly the same thing, depending on who you are saying it to/about:

(You know, this kind of thing just gives me the biggest hard on.)

And that’s one of the biggest reasons why I think I’ve stayed interested in Japanese for so long – it totally speaks to the masochist endurance-orientated soul in me. You have to be either a nerdy geeky or totally masochist to get into the deeper areas of it.

Bring on December 5th.

Wardrobe malfunction

You know things aren’t boding well for your job interview when you realise an hour before the appointment time that you’ve forgotten your bra.

…and you’re wearing a white shirt.

…and you’ve got rosy nipples.

But forget my bra today I did. So I went into emergency mode and went shopping for a bra 45 minutes before my job interview.

It was the quickest damn purchase I’ve ever made in my life. Five minutes max. I charged into the shop; grabbed the first sales assistant I could find; told her I needed a 36C in white, no ribbons, no bling, no lace, no fucking hearts, dogs or squirrels; took two into the change room; made a snap decision; handed over the money and then I swallowed my pride:

“Can you cut off all the tags and can I put it on in your change room?” I asked.

And when the sales assistant raised her eyebrows at me, I scraped the bottom of my pride barrel for the last few vestiges and said:

“It’s kind of an emergency no-bra-but-need-bra situation.”


I wish I made this stuff up.

But anyway, I got my bra and feeling better knowing that my nipples were safe from the world, I went for my interview.

So I entered the room, took a seat across from the general manager and the marketing director and the first words out of my mouth were,

‘Oh, I see you’ve got my resume.’

NO-SHIT-SHERLOCK!!! You’re in a fucking job interview! Of course, they’ve got your resume. You sent the fucking thing to them!!!

And it was at that point I thought that all the bras in the world wouldn’t have helped me.

It would have been a great job to get, but I didn’t feel the love. I was uberly nervous and couldn’t stop doing a high-pitched girlie laugh for the whole hour. I also lost half my body weight in sweat and totally, totally failed at answering the questions. I floated up out of my body half-way through and looked down at myself thinking, ‘You’re talking utter fluff and crap and you seem to have great difficulty with the English language.’

Not good.

So I have to call the recruiter tomorrow and tell her how I went. I’m strongly considering at the moment simply saying, ‘Fine’ instead of going into detail about missing bras and

Or maybe she’ll find this story as amusing as I am in retrospect. But then again, she’s lost about $7,000 by not placing me so perhaps when she calls me next week to tell me I haven’t got the job, I should act all innocent and chime in perfectly with her, ‘I wonder why?’s.

P.S In case you’ve been reading this and wondering why the fuck I wasn’t wearing a bra to begin with, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I never wear a bra. M thinks that means I’m a slut, I think it just means one less item of clothing I need to wash.


It’s always so hard to find something that is just right.

Like the search for the perfect pillow – not too high, not too low, but just right.

Or the perfect pair of jeans – doesn’t give me a muffin top, doesn’t give me a fat ass, but just looks half-decent and doesn’t require me to hooker myself out in order to be able to afford.

That thing, that place, that is just right and ticks all my boxes, can be very elusive indeed.

My blogger buddy biddable, from whom I apparently caught my ‘bun in the oven’  (who knew pregnancy could be caught over the innernets??lol…) wrote a lovely piece the other day about not feeling like she fitted into one of  the traditional ‘groups’ of either slavey folk or traditional marriage folk.

Reading her entry was like one of those sledge-hammer-to-the-head moments for me. Thinking about my ambivalent feelings towards slavery, I’ve realised that I’m not exactly a gold member of the small-s club, but yet, I’m not a fully-fledged member of the ‘nilla and proud of it club either.

There are things I like and things that seem completely normal to me that would set the hair of a member of the ‘nilla and proud of it club on end. Similarly, there are things in the small-s club that I couldn’t imagine doing (submitting?) to now: ‘You want to put what through my labia??’

Ages and ages ago someone asked me whether I wanted to ‘go back’ to my ex-husband and I responded with: ‘I couldn’t, I’m not that person anymore.‘ And in fact, I still feel that way. I’m not the same person I was pre-slavery as I am now and I just wouldn’t feel right living a totally vanilla life.

But I’m also not feeling right about living as a ‘slave’ (whatever that is…and whatever that involves…)

I’m somewhere in the middle, with a toe in each pond and wondering which way I want to go. I need to jump into one of them, because I don’t think I can just stand out on the pontoon by myself forever.

The ability to identify with a particular group is pretty intrinsic to human nature. No matter how much we like to think in the modern world that we can get along with just our wits, an iPhone and an adequate bank balance, without other people and without belonging to groups, we get no-where. Life is set up in such a way that you need other people.

Like everyone else, I want to be a member of the group. I want a nice, pretty club badge that I can wear with pride.

Now all I need to decide is which club.

After several stiff drinks (in my mind)

Thanks for all the Happy 300,000 wishes everyone!

After some thought, I’ve decided not to do the links to my favourite posts after all. I mean, who needs to go back through all my angst again???

One thing I can say that has changed in my writing over time, is that I angst less. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that I’m ‘over’ the slavery thing now and therefore there is no need to angst. I’ve gone over that hill now, so I’ve stopped bitching about how hard of a slog it is to get up it 🙂 The view from the other side puts everything in an interesting perspective.

It was nice though, to look back at simpler times when I was fully in the mind-set and writing “I love it when my Master beats me” posts like the shiniest newbie. It’s funny how you can have such a total change in your feelings. Actually, I shouldn’t really be surprised. The mind can do the most amazing things and as far as D/s is concerned, it’s 99.9% mind over matter.

So, where to go from here?

Well, I’ll keep blogging as long as I have something to say. I’ll probably keep with the ‘no-real-theme’ theme and writing about whatever takes my fancy. I’m sure there will continue to be a fair amount of telling embarassing stories about myself along with a general smattering of porn.

I’ve also added a ‘Contact me’ form in the sidebar that you can use to drop me a question/comment  anonymously or otherwise (As long as you just write something in the name and email lines, you’ll be able to send it. Might I suggest ‘Gonzo’ as the name and ‘’ for the address? I always like to be helpful *snickers*)

Happy 300,000 to me!

Some time in the late hours of yesterday afternoon I passed that magical number of 300,000 views in my hit counter (although I’m pretty sure the last 100 or so were my views as I kept checking every five minutes or so, ‘Am I there yet? Am I there yet?’ So hip, hip hooray to me…lol.

It’s taken a while to rack up that number of views. I’ve been blogging since 2005 – with the first three years on livejournal and the last three years on wordpress. I’m not exactly sure why, but I’ve had a much bigger readership since moving over to wordpress. Actually, come to think of it, I do know why. My years on livejournal saw me pretty much exclusively writing about bdsm, but since coming to wordpress I’ve branched out into blogging about whatever takes my fancy.

I think it says something when blogs about Japan get many, many more hits than naked pics of yours truly and her boots collection 🙂

Looking back I’ve got some favourite blog moments and if I’d been smart, I would have tagged my favourite posts with something that would allow me to go back with nothing more than a click. But, you know me – half-assed and totally lazy – so instead, I’ve got to wade through the 952 posts I’ve done to get to mildly interesting stuff.

And here is some of it (in no particular order):

Why women don’t bother asking men to do things around the house

Thanks also for leaving comments (all 5,132 of them!!) and most of all, for reading.

Updated: OMG…and I think I want to cry now, because I just spent 8 hrs going through all my posts and adding links to the entry and they’ve all disappeared but one….

I need a stiff drink…

Bun in the oven

So I have some surprising news…

Just forget all the moaning and whining I did about people doing the ‘obvious’ relationship thing and deciding to pop one out. You may also need to forget the fact that I made up my mind never to have children.

Because this morning, somewhere between home and the train station, I fell pregnant. And what’s more,  this pregnancy has been uberly fast-tracked and I’m already at the ‘obvious’ stage.

Or at least, that’s what I assume.

Because I can think of no other reason why a middle-aged guy would give up his seat to me in a peak-hour commuter train, other than because he thought I had a bun in the oven.

(Note to self: do some sit ups.)

There I was, minding my own business in the train, squished up between several older ladies and smelly kids and so I positioned myself in front of the priority seats where there was a free strap to hang onto. And the guy sitting down in front of me does the ‘tummy assessment’, makes movements to get out of his seat and says, ‘Do you want to sit down?’

And I’m like, ‘No, no, I’m fine thanks,’ and went back to watching Eddie Izzard on my iPod.

But the dude gets out of his seat and says, “There you go” and moves away doing his best possible white knight impersonation. So I have to do the uncomfortable sit-down thing while the thirty other people standing up give me death stares and the older ladies still standing up quietly plot my death.

(Note to self: stop wearing empire line tops and do some sit ups.)

And that’s how I became pregnant.

I’m guessing four months or so.

Or am I being cynical? Did the dude offer his seat to me out the of the goodness of his heart? Or was it one of those mystical acts of chivalry that ones hears about sometimes like men holding seats for you and opening car doors?

See, I have a little bit of trouble believing that it could be anything but a case of mistaken-fat-tummy. Ten years of catching public transport in Japan ingrained in me the idea that it’s every man for himself as far as getting seats on public transport is concerned. That’s why they’re anal about lining up and there are all the unspoken rules about train etiquette – because a seat is the holy grail. People in Tokyo catch trains in the opposite direction and sometimes go as far as to move houses so they can sit down. And once you’ve got a seat, old ladies, pregnant woman and people on crutches aren’t enough to pry you out.

I remember late one night catching a train home and a lady fainted dead away on the floor (not drunk or anything, she was obviously suffering low blood pressure or something.) Of the five seats she fainted in front of, mine was the only one she got offered. Everyone else was obviously superglued in or they were too busy thinking that her acting was good, but not that good. I’ve also seen people vomit in trains and not be offered a seat. Yeah…life in the metropolis is tough.

I’ve only been catching trains here regularly for a couple of years, but I’m still pretty cynical about getting offered seats.

Anyway, so I can home from work and told M what had happened and he didn’t seem surprised. In fact, he didn’t say anything at first and just sort of stared at me in an enigmatic way as though he was contemplating telling me that I really needed to do some sit ups.

Then, after he obviously thought better of telling me I needed to do some sit ups, he got his sense of humour back and asked me who I’ve been fucking on the way to work.

I was tempted to suggest my new ‘umbrella love-bird’ friend at the bus stop who now CHIT CHATS with me about the weather on a daily basis (that whole umbrella thing just opened up a pandora’s frickin’ box), but I felt that us humping on the side of a busy suburban street would be a bit unbelievable.

Doing it on the back seat of the bus up with the ‘bad kids’ seems much more believable don’t you think?

I’ll wear my badge proclaiming me a member of the transperth club, which is like the mile-high club (but only covers sexual acts in public transport vehicles in the greater Perth metro region) with pride…lol.

(Note to self: do some sit ups. Seriously.)

Service? All it’s cracked up to be?

“I’m here to serve and please!”

How many times have you heard that slave mantra? I know I’ve said it until my tongue nearly dropped off (and no, that’s not because I was lying through my teeth at the time, but because he makes me say it over and over again.) I’ve also heard other slaves saying it more times than I care to count. But I don’t really get it. I don’t get the whole ‘domestic service’ thing.

In essence, isn’t it just a person being a partner and doing what needs to be done?

I don’t really think that housework needs to be white-washed into ‘slave service’, do you?

I’m guessing at this stage that some people will say, ‘But it’s not all housework! I do other stuff too!’

Well, I do too.

I clean his ears. I cut his hair. I’ve pumiced dead skin off his feet. I’ve dealt with his bodily waste products. Given him back rubs, bum rubs and kissed his ass.

I don’t think any of that qualifies as ‘service’ though. He’s my partner, and I’d do that sort of stuff for him whether he owned me or not.

Is that weird? Do other people not do that sort of stuff for their SOs?

The only situation in which I would call it ‘domestic service’ instead of ‘looking after your partner’ was if you didn’t live with someone and weren’t involved in a co-habitation-type of relationship and you just went to their house to do ‘stuff’ for them without monetary gain. I’d totally label that sort of situation ‘domestic service’. If they were a boy and did that sort of stuff while wearing a maid outfit, I’d go as far as to call that a bona-fide kink.

I just don’t understand how you can call keeping house and cooking & cleaning ‘domestic service’. I’m not discounting the value of housework, I just don’t see how something that would get done anyway, can be glossed up to be ‘service’.

I see ‘service’ as something that you go out of your way to do and that benefits no-one but your owner. I see piss-drinking, mystery shoppers, three-inch butt plugs and all those other irksome things as ‘service’. I see things that your average ‘nilla’ person wouldn’t do as owner service – not growing veggies, baking bread and cleaning tile grout with a toothbrush.

To me, that’s just life.

Apparently I’m 36…

Being a sucker for all sorts of online quizzes like, ‘How long could you survive chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor?‘ and “How many hungry weasels could your body feed?”, I decided to do the Real Age test.

It asks you all sorts of questions about health, relationships and diet and at the end spits out your real age. It spat this out at me:

I think I might go and cry now…

Curious about why my real age was higher than my actual age, I clicked on ‘see my plan’ where it tells you things you’re doing well and things you’re not doing so well:

Apparently I’m 36 because I’m fat, no longer have a dog, have no friends and the range rover doesn’t have air bags…lol.

How depressing…

I think I might go and do the “How many Justin Biebers could you take in a fight?” test just to cheer myself up (I’m pretty sure I could take ALL of them…)

P.S I *heart* The Oatmeal. Too funny.

Do I look like your umbrella bitch?

I had a slightly amusing Rihanna moment this morning.

It wasn’t raining when I left the house, but as I headed for the bus stop, it started sprinkling so I took the pop-up umbrella that I always carry in my bag out and put it up. (It’s very un-Australian of me to always carry an umbrella around, but hey, that’s what ten years in Japan does to you…)

Then it stopped sprinkling. So I put it away (because nothing makes you look more like a dickhead than walking around with an umbrella when it’s not raining).

Two minutes later it started raining again so out comes the umbrella. As I neared the bus stop, I saw the quirky kid that is there most mornings and who I always ignore. He is, by the way, my unofficial bus hailer (because I hate standing there with my arm out hailing a bus feeling like a dickhead). He and I have an unspoken agreement that he hails the bus i.e. he knows I won’t stick my hand out so he’s forced to do it by default.

So as I’m standing there ignoring him, as I always do, under my UM.BRE.LLA. ella ella, ay,ay,ay. It starts pissing down with rain and he doesn’t have an umbrella.

So he looks at me and asks, ‘Do you mind?’

And the next minute we’re standing there like two fucking love birds under my UM.BRE.LLA ella ella, ay,ay,ay. in the rain at a bus stop.

And I had to make CHIT CHAT!!


He’s one of the quirky kids that is in every class – short,  brainy and in his future I see an appearance on Beauty & The Geek. His backpack looks like it contains all the books of western civilisation and it’s so heavy that he can barely step up into the bus every morning.

He also takes an inordinate amount of time to actually step into the bus and swipe his card. It’s bizarre. I’m one of those people who likes to get on the bus and into the anonymity of a seat in exactly 0.35 seconds. I hate the feeling of everyone staring at you when you get on the bus and so I make sure that my entry is as speedy as possible.

Doors open. Step up. Swipe card. Scan for empty seat. Dive for seat.

I also have my preferred seat that is a little bit raised up so I get a good view of everyone getting on the bus, is not too close to the air-con vents that freeze your tits off and is not so far up the back that you get stuck up with the ‘bad’ kids. Nothing peeves me off more than someone stealing my seat, but it happens a little bit more than I like it to and sometimes I get ‘bus rage’ and feel the need to poke people with sharp pointy objects.

Ahhh…the joys of public transport.

So that was my morning in a nutshell for you.

The rest of my day just went down from there. I took 8 toilet breaks and went to check the mail 3 times (even though the mail is delivered once, and generally before I get to work) because I was SO. BORED.

Can I have some work with my job please?


You know you’re anal when…

…you’re in M’s bed having a pre-sleep banter session at 11pm and he says to you, “Have you done Einstein’s riddle?” and before you go to sleep you just HAVE. TO.DO.IT.

I’d never seen or heard of it before, but thanks to the google god, these days, everything is just a search away.

The riddle took me 20 minutes…so apparently I’m ‘smart’ but not ‘Einstein-smart’. I’m not sure whether the ‘only 2% of the population can solve it’ spiel is true. I just think only 2% of the population can be BOTHERED to solve it. I’m all into doing time-wasting things like that, just so I can casually drop it into conversation:

“Yeah, it’s been hot recently. So hot in fact that I worked up quite a sweat solving Einstein’s riddle the other day. Yes….solving it. Only 2% of the population can solve it you know…”

I guess the burning question is why did M ask such a random question to begin with? Well, I was telling him about the 12 Pillars of Wisdom test I’d done, and how my memory sucks. A string of numbers over 5 digits and I’m fucked. So he said that he’d done the riddle and that’s when I smelled a challenge and got all perky. Even though I’m the small-s in the relationship, I don’t like the ‘s’ to stand for ‘stupid’ (unfortunately, it does a lot of time though, and I keep making myself look stupid by saying blonde stuff like, “I always thought it was called the Spanish Inquisition because it happened in Spain!”)

I also recommend that when you’re doing the 12 Pillars of Wisdom test that your boss is not sitting there telling you about something and all the little beeps and boops keep going off in the background.

My concentration span these days also tends to be totally fucked. I’ve been trying to set aside some time to do Japanese study and the most I manage is about 15 minutes. Then I need to go and do something else for a while and come back to it. So generally I have 5 or 6 things that I’ve started and keep coming back to in rotation to do 10-15 minutes of before I move to the next thing.

It’s not exactly the sign of an ordered mind is it?

As I get older my concentration span seems to be getting shorter and shorter. I thought it was supposed to be the other way around?!?

I remember ages ago (re. five years ago) when I was whining about having a really fucked memory and the-one-who-shall-remain-name-less said in his best “I’m a mysterious dom” voice (that I totally fell for every time) ‘It’s the collar that does that’ and I was all, ‘Yeah….’ and nodding and acting like he’d explained the meaning of life or something.

I also remember telling him about some ‘floaty sub-space’ feeling I’d had while running on a treadmill at the gym and once again in his best ‘mysterious dom voice’ he said, ‘That’s your mind realising its submissiveness and taking on its natural state’ and I was all, ‘Yeah…’

I didn’t think at the time that I was possibly a bit dehydrated and all I needed was a drink of water and that ‘floaty feeling’ would go right away…

Anyway, if you’re bored and anal knock yourselves out with a test or two so you can casually drop the fact into conversation at your next cocktail party.

Thinking aloud

Before I was a slave, I was a teacher. I used to teach people about the joys of the English language and all its secret nooks and crannies, and there are many of those if you know where to look.

Like ‘breakfast’.

When you start out learning English, you get told, ‘In English, xxx is breakfast’ and you memorise it and all is good. No-one tells you what ‘breakfast’ actually means though – that it’s ‘breaking the fast you were doing while you were sleeping’.

I remember the first time I taught my students that and they were all “Ooh”ing and “Ahh”ing and looking at me like I had invented air or something. Those were the moments I really enjoyed teaching and quite often they made up for all the endless hours of marking and lesson planning that went on after class, in the evenings and on my weekends.

Then I had a great idea about teaching Japanese and enjoying the same sense of satisfaction I got when I was teaching English. I had images of much ‘ooh’ing and ‘ahh’ing when people found out that ‘konnichi wa’ means ‘Today is…’ and what started out as a sentence discussing the weather as in, “Today is warm”, over time became shortened to just, ‘Today is…”.

So I went back to university and got my piece of paper that said I could teach in high school and quite frankly I hoofed it out of the classroom as soon as I could. Teaching speakers of English another language is a very different beast indeed. Well, it wasn’t so much the teaching, but the ‘herding of the cattle’ that I struggled with and probably more so because I’ve never had kids of my own to practise screaming at.

But I still like teaching and subconsciously, that’s what I do when I blog. I like to make it a meaningful experience and perhaps make people think a little about something.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my work and how meaningless it is. I don’t contribute to anything, I don’t help anyone, I don’t even have anything to do half the time! (which would be slightly more funny if it wasn’t completely true…lol.) It’s a very meaningless existence to someone who spent a great deal of time trying to help people learn and understand.

I guess the question I’m asking myself is, should I try to get back into teaching?

For someone like me who is intrinsically shy, standing in front of a room full of people is quite intimidating. You’ve also got to know your stuff and have to be ready to field questions from left field like, ‘Miss, what does, ‘You’re a fucking bastard!’ mean?’

And that’s my whole problem at the moment because where I am and what I am doing is very ‘safe’. I haven’t been out of my comfort zone for quite a while and it’s damn scary. But sometimes I really think I need the push. I need the challenge and the stimulus or I’m just going to devolve into some turd under a rock sooner or later.

Parties and kissing ass

Saturday night we dragged ourselves out to our first play party in about twelve months. After much angsting about what to wear I decided on the theme ‘five-dollar-love-you-long-time’ and went in a ‘Chinese-style’ dress with my hair in Princess Leia-esque buns.

The last time I’d worn that particular outfit was also the first time I ever got naked in public so I had my misgivings about it, but fortunately, the man had decided that he wasn’t going to strip me naked and wasn’t going to do any play and that suited me just fine.

(Because, remember, I’m just a ‘pseudo-slave’ now 🙂 )

Admittedly a few times through the night I did have a twinge of wanting to show hapless newbies ‘how it’s really done’ but I contained myself and ended up having an extended talk about diet and exercise with someone who hadn’t seen me for ages and didn’t recognise me – being a bit smaller than I used to be and possibly also due to the fact that I was not naked or booted.

We watched some scary blood play courtesy of a very nasty vampire paddle and a broken crop that had been ‘fixed’ with tacks and spent most of our night grazing the food table and chatting. I’ve always wondered why you would go to a play party if you weren’t going to play, but I guess it’s ok just to go and be sociable (and let people know that you haven’t died…)

Earlier on in the afternoon I’d received a text from a friend asking if we were going to the party and would I mind taking a top belong to the party host back for her. After waiting for it to be dropped around for 30 minutes or so we got bored and started having some afternoon delight in the privacy of the bedroom. Everyone knows that the door bell will ring right in the middle of it and true to form it did.

I was expecting the man to answer the door, take the top and say ‘Hi’ and “Bye” so I just hung out naked and booted in the bedroom.

The man had other ideas though.

Other ideas along the lines of hauling my naked ass out onto the kitchen table and having our friends take a video of him kissing my ass.

I’m sure your reaction to this turn of events was much the same as my reaction at the time: “WTF???!!!??!!!”

Just to explain, a couple of days earlier M had proudly pointed out a car he has been lusting over in the car park. I took one look at and said he must be fucking blind mistaken because that wasn’t his car. Then ensued the “Yes, it is!”, “No, it isn’t!” game and finally I said I would bet him $50 it wasn’t. To which he said he wanted something more ‘meaningful’  to bet with so I suggested an ass kissing.

And there we have it. He was wrong, of course, and I got a super-dooper ass kissing.

The video is up on Fetlife for those of you who have paid accounts (and who are interested in ass kissing).

All I will say about it, is that for a man with no empathy, he kisses ass really well.