Miss Makeover:FETIQUETTE. MANNERS FOR MANIACS

By on August 19, 2010

FETIQUETTE. MANNERS FOR MANIACS by Miss Makeover
Americans tend to think there are codes for everything. In the leather community a handkerchief in one pocket means sub, the other pocket means Dom. Some people swear by scene etiquette. Whereas others just get drunk and swear at everyone. There seems to be the same number of disastrous misunderstandings, whatever you do.  I suppose we could all wear name-tags with our sexual preferences printed on them in luminous red writing? Except that unambiguous sexual invitations put people off. You might be gagging for it, you just can’t say so. Don’t want to appear ‘needy’, now do we? The most unambiguous attempt at seduction I have ever seen came when Mad Mary (a genetic male) took some ghb on top of the usual fistful of synthetic love pills and other reality tweakers. This was at an orgy for advanced degenerates – nearly all bisexual switches – therefore ready for anything. One was a detective inspector, another had a job doing horrible things to horrible people for the security services. Everyone else was some sort of jaded public school pervert who had seen and done everything. So no-one was easily shocked. But no-one had yet seen a deranged tranny bent over a whipping trestle – skirt up, knickers down – pointing frantically at her freshly fisted anus and screaming, “Fuck me! Fuck Me!“.
People tip-toed past this distressing spectacle, eager to do anything rather than be sucked into that gaping maw, never to be seen again.
A better seduction plan is to look demure then be surprisingly lewd and lascivious when the opportunity arises. The problem is, if guys know I do lewd for a living they tend to wilt.  Measuring themselves against impossibly virile punters, or tenacious toyboys they head for the hills.
For the girl next door. Or a scene with a magazine then back to the all conquering Playstation.

MY MAN MAX – CORNERED. YES OR NO?
He kept mailing me. He was having second thoughts. Maybe I was just what he needed. Maybe I had taught him a valuable lesson. We had to talk.
I was so excited.  Now I’ve got him where I want him. My place. In bed, post-coital, one bottle of wine down. I’ve squeezed sperm out of his nuts and laughs out of his belly.
I want a  proposal. We did dinner and a show. There was a full moon to go with the champagne. Sex  was approached with his usual detached virtuosity till I made him whoop for joy. Now we’re in the warm, gooey after glow. Even My Man Max might crack under these circumstances.
“Why do we never go to yours?” I ask, dreamily.
“It’s a pig sty,” he says.
I’ve seen him fold his clothes every time he takes them off. I don’t believe him.
“I want to go there.”
“Ok,” he says. Unconvincingly. This is an uninvitation, as Seinfeld has it.
So, I’m a good enough shag. But I’m not good enough to see his place. Is he just using me for sex?  I get out of bed and dress. I manage not to step on the discarded condom. I manage not to think about the time I considered trapping him with a pinpricked condom. He’d have to marry me if I was pregnant, right? Madness. Utter madness.
“No! Wait!” he says.
I don’t hear sincerity. I don’t hear commitment. I don’t hear desire. The hunger i have for him.
“Listen!”
He doesn’t mean it. Not enough for me, anyway.
Unrequited love. The oldest, saddest song. One I’m not going to forget in a hurry. Maybe he is in love. With himself. Which has probably been obvious to everyone else except me. You must have known. Why didn’t you tell me?
Would I have listened? probably not.
He loves fun, money, career and cars. He might need me, occasionally. As an accessory to the former. Perhaps he’s already had me. He’s shagged me, not once but many times. It worked every time – technically, aesthetically, romantically – but there are plenty of other girls who are ‘good in bed’. Most of them aren’t drug addicts. Or whores. Some are young and passive and nice enough to take home to mother. He always laughed when I asked him about that. Opened another bottle of champagne and encouraged me to be very rude indeed. But perhaps he was planning to take a girl called Felicity home. Someone who giggled and let him talk incessantly. Someone who wore a cardigan and sensible shoes.
“Get out!” I tell him. And he’s only too glad to go. Can’t wait. Probably congratulating himself on cutting the knot cleanly.  And there won’t be any revenge from me of course. Except on myself, the guilty party.
I manage not to cry. Which hurts. A lot. The world might be running out of fresh air and water but there never seems to be any shortage of pain. Oh well. Time I went to a meeting. Otherwise I’m going to wake up in hospital again.

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