Good things.

The Veteran referred me to a private modelling client who totally loves me and pays substantially more than most places – and the room I pose in has a couch and also there’s an awesome dog running around. This is the second Tuesday in a row he’s had me, and he asked me back for next Tuesday as well. I’m hoping this continues for a good long while.

I got in touch with another private client who used to have me every week but then kinda drifted on me. She immediately said yes to having me back. I don’t know yet if she’ll continue with the every-week schedule but at least I’m making an extra $75 this week.

Someone had a model cancel on them and contacted me to fill in. So that’s another $150. All these people pay me in cash, btw.

I got into that foot party I applied for! Let the bravado/fear cycle begin! :P

I stumbled over a guy on FetLife who claims to be super into giving chicks money. He says he’s between paycheques right now but once he gets paid he’ll buy me all kinds of things. I’m aware that he may be full of shit on that score, but he did purchase a custom clip from me and I would imagine he’ll purchase others. Plus he’s been fun to talk to, so even if nothing else ever comes of this, I won’t particularly feel as though I’ve wasted my time.

Fingers crossed that everything works out.

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I’ve felt for a while now that things between Mine and I are falling apart. Or maybe it’s just the relationship settling into that comfy place, but I don’t think so. We haven’t logged nearly enough time together for that – we’ve technically been dating for almost a year now but he lives in a different city and works all the time so I would guess that we’ve seen each other less than ten times altogether.

But yeah…he doesn’t send me gushing texts about how much he loves me anymore, and frankly I don’t have an urge to send any to him, either. The spark doesn’t seem to be there anymore. Last time he was here we both totally forgot to do our ritual of him taking my shoes off for me when I got home. I only realized this later, after he was gone.

I still enjoy being with him. Maybe we mistook solid D/s compatibility for falling in love, and now the relationship has settled into more of a FWB type thing. I like FWBs. But I miss the thrill of falling for someone and if I felt that for this boy before, then maybe I can get it back again instead of starting from scratch with someone else.

I’ve just texted him, airing these feelings a bit. I’m kinda hoping that even just the act of me telling him how I feel will trigger honest talk from him in return and we’ll end up feeling closer as a result. That’s how it worked with Minx and I, sometimes.

Hmmm. Mine has texted me back now, saying he feels the same way (distant but not wanting to be). He says he’s been going through a stressful time lately but that’s coming to a close – implying that it’s the stress that’s been fucking with things – but I’m not sure that’s true, honestly. I mean it accounts for him not seeing me for a really long time – he got evicted and has been scrambling to find a new place – but when you feel heart-explody love for someone I don’t think it’s common for that to just shut off due to stress. He goes days at a time without contacting me at all lately, and when he does it’s never mushy anymore. I feel like something is afoot.

Or maybe he is a person who can’t spare any mushy stuff for someone else when he’s got a lot going on in his life. Maybe that is indeed a thing. Who the hell knows. But the thing is…I’m not like that, and I’m feeling kind of not-in-love-with-him, too (I haven’t been noticing his long silences, particularly! Just every now and then I’ll be like “Hey, I wonder how Mine’s been doing? When did he even text me last? Feels like it’s been a while” and I check my phone and it’s been three days. When The Pedant and I were seeing each other I missed him during his silences…). It just doesn’t seem to bode very well. On my end it may be that I got burned out by never knowing when I would see Mine next. The Pedant (and, oddly, my ex-husband, even though we lived together) already gave me enough of that whole runaround, and although Mine’s reasons were legit (he wasn’t just fucking with me) and he did a good job of still making me feel loved when he couldn’t be here (until everything started to fall to shit), I just…I just don’t know if I can get emotionally invested in someone with an unreliable schedule.

And actually I’m also beginning to feel as though we have different priorities and that’s a big issue, too. Specifically, I mean that my relationships tend to take priority for me over work. I’ll work enough to support myself but beyond that, I’ll make time for my partners and friends. I mean I won’t cancel a gig to go hang out with someone but I’ve turned down offers of work if I already had social plans.

Mine…won’t do that for me. He, too, does freelance work (handyman, in his case) and gets last-minute job offers…and he simply will not ever reserve time for me the way I will for him (I voiced my annoyance over this imbalance a while back and he made me promise never again to turn down work for him, which was a good idea and made me feel less taken advantage of but doesn’t solve the fundamental problem of never knowing when I’m actually going to see him).

And for a while, I was okay with him having to work all the time. Dude has to support himself, after all, and with the unpredictable nature of his job he’d best be trying to put aside savings to cover the lean times, too.


His rent is only $500 a month and it turns out he’s also on disability (he’s bipolar), which gives him $1,000/month. He could probably just live on that and not even have to work at all (he doesn’t have a car, so no car payments or insurance; he doesn’t have a tv, so no cable bill; his phone is a decade-old flip phone, so no fancy phone with data plan…dude doesn’t have a lot of bills). But he’s working under the table in addition to getting that thousand a month – and working a lot. He is just fine financially (unless he’s really fucking things up, which he might be – more on that in a minute). But he still won’t ever guarantee me a specific chunk of time to hang out. It’s always “I can probably come over on Tuesday but I might have to work – I’ll let you know soon.” (Well in fairness he did reserve my birthday. He’s not a total dick. Just…different priorities, like I said.)

Now, here’s another interesting thing – he’s had a few times where he wanted to see me and wasn’t working but said he didn’t have the money to come over. So first off, he must be burning through crazy amounts of cash to end up so poor that he can’t afford the Greyhound (which is like $20, tops)(but in fairness I think he also expects to take me to dinner and stuff when he’s here so he probably wants to have a good chunk of cash on hand. I don’t ask for these dinners out, mind you. I like ’em but I don’t expect them. I just wanna spend time with him). But also? He once mentioned in passing that he has about $6,000 in savings. When he says he doesn’t have the money to see me, it doesn’t mean he literally has no money. It means he’s down to just his savings and he doesn’t want to dip into that. Which is his prerogative but, again…different priorities. If I were in his circumstances I’d spend the money to go see the one I was in love with and just be sure to replace it later once my next disability cheque or wad of cash from handyman stuff came in.

It’s a complicated issue. I like that he has boundaries. I like that he’s been able to save up a nest egg and has the discipline not to touch it. But on the other hand I don’t feel particularly loved or prioritized when the boy blows all his spending money on god-knows-what, leaving none for coming over to see me. Then he says it’s killing him being apart from me and it feels like a lie because OH HAI YOU ACTUALLY HAVE THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS IN YOUR ACCOUNT AND IT WOULD ONLY TAKE A TINY FRACTION OF THAT TO SOLVE THIS PROBLEM.

One time, I asked him how it is that he regularly runs out of money-that-is-not-his-nest-egg when I know his rent takes up only like 25% of his income. He said that he’s paying off a huge credit card debt from a few years back when he wasn’t on bipolar meds yet and went on a huge manic shopping spree. Buuuuuut…I know that this is not the whole truth. Not that I think Mine is lying to me – I think he’s just one of nature’s extravagant spenders and doesn’t realize how much it all adds up. But like, the first time we met he paid for a cab from our meeting place to the play party because he didn’t wanna wait for the bus (which would have taken us right there and would have come within ten minutes, tops). He takes us out to dinner and often breakfast, too, when he’s here. He’ll offer to take me out to a movie but every single thing I mention an interest in, he’s already seen. Dude must be spending a hundred bucks a week just on going to movies.

And while I enjoy feeling like a high roller when I’m with Mine, his spending habits did kind of kill my onetime idea of moving in with him someday. He hasn’t ever overspent to the point of fucking up on rent as far as I know, but I’d be kind of worried that he would. The fact that he gets carried away going to movies and god knows what else to a point where he can’t come and see me, the person he’s allegedly in love with (when, by the way, he’s not allowed to orgasm unless he’s with me and he’s been backed up for weeks), doesn’t seem to bode well as far as priority-setting.

I just don’t know about this relationship anymore.


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Foot party

I don’t look like a supermodel, and I am honestly fine with that…most of the time. I rock the “wonky-cute” niche like nobody’s business.

But I feel that my appeal doesn’t come across in photographs, so if I’m in a situation where someone’s judging my attractiveness by still images alone…that’s gonna make me paranoid.

I mention this because I’ve just applied to do these “foot party” things where foot fetishists pay for foot play with hot chicks. If there were, like…an in-person audition, or something, I am confident I’d come across as attractive and fun to play with. But it’s an online application that requires at least one face pic, soooooo yeah.

I haven’t talked about my one partner, The Puppy, in a while, but I am indeed still seeing him. Last night I put on my Hot Girl Disguise* and had him take some pictures of me.

And…my face was really not cooperating with the camera. Neither was my body, really; I’ve been slowly gaining weight over the past few months and the image of myself that I have in my head is noooot exactly how I actually look now; I’m still an hourglass, but I’ve always had a really short torso and now with my bigger ass some angles make me look weird and distorted, like I have big hips and big boobs stacked directly on top of each other with nothing in-between. Kind of a matronly look. like Granny from Looney Tunes. Makes me feel old.

And the lighting at The Puppy’s place was kinda shitty and he’s shorter than I am so the camera angle was often unflattering and just…I pretty much looked at the photos and felt like crying. I don’t know how many slots there are at these parties or how many women are vying for them, but I’m betting a lot of my competition is much younger and more photogenic than I am and it’s wigging me out.

I do not like feeling insecure like this. I hate that I’m trying to compete in an appearance-based arena; I’m totally out of my element here. But the party would be a good shot for me to make money and promote my clip site and possibly cruise for clients for one-on-one sessions.

I managed to claw two decent photos out of the evening. The application is sent now; it’s out of my hands. We’ll see what happens.

*I feel that the Hot Girl Disguise (which in my case means a wig and makeup) is necessary for any sex work endeavor I do for the time being. Nobody recognizes me when my signature punk hairdo is covered up, and dramatic makeup skews my look even more, so I figure my disguise will help keep me from being recognized. As in, I can have face pics online and if someone I know sees them they quite possibly won’t realize it’s me, and also I’ll probably never have to worry about someone who’s only seen my “sex work persona” approaching me when I’m out living my life.

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There’s also a stale hamster-cage smell in here that I can’t get rid of (I blame Dickface the kitten, although there may be a certain amount of marinated hooman-stank involved, as well).

Airing out the place for days didn’t work. Febreze-ing the bedroom carpet and my mattress didn’t work. I don’t fucking know anymore. Maybe I’m just doomed.


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Hard times

I’m PMSing and possibly also depressed and yet the spring weather has sort of invigorated me and I am determined to try to dig myself out of the pile of clutter my apartment has become. I am once again at a point where every step I take, I’m slipping or tripping or having shit fall on me and it’s making me all weird and flinchy. I can’t get the idea out of my head that the apartment is playing mean pranks on me, moving shit juuuust slightly as I try to step around it so that I stub my toe anyway. I can’t with this. I can’t. I have to do something.

It’s hard, though. Words really can’t describe how bad the place has gotten, and the apartment is so small that there’s almost no way to even make a clear space in which to sort things so I can put them away.

One issue I’ve been meaning to tackle for months now is that the front of one of my Ikea dresser drawers has come loose on one side, making me loath to use that drawer (since I can’t pull it out) or the one underneath it (since the loose drawer-front hangs down and interferes with it). If I could fix that drawer – the reasoning went – I could use those drawers again. Maybe I could even stuff them full of the clothes on my floor that were blocking the bottom drawer from opening.

Ikea dresser drawers go together with pegs and holes and then there’s a screw-thing you have to tighten. I just had my screwdriver with the bazillion interchangeable tips in my grasp an hour or so ago to do another minor chore, but I couldn’t fucking find it just now. It’s okay, though – I have several different screwdrivers! So I looked under the kitchen sink where I keep my tools and all the fucking screwdrivers I could find were the cross-head kind when I needed the slot-head kind. No idea where my other interchangeable-tip screwdriver is. It felt like a nightmare, literally, reaching for one screwdriver after another only to find that each one was the wrong kind.

Finally I managed to find a clean butter knife to use instead and went back into the bedroom to do battle with the drawer.

I pulled the drawer out and laid it face-down on the bed to try to push the pegs back into the holes. I had to push really hard and it still wasn’t working and then my glasses (whose hinges have been slowly loosening over the past few months) fell off my face and I couldn’t fucking find them for five minutes because I’m blind without them and then I decided I needed to lay the drawer on an unyielding surface – the floor – so I could lean my weight down on it to force the front back on but there wasn’t a big enough clear space on the floor.

And yes, I’ll admit that I’ve been lax in my tidying for the past, oh, year or so because depression. I know a lot of this is my own fault. I know, okay?

But on the other hand the useable floor space in my bedroom is about 3’x3′. If I sit on the floor with my back to the night table, my feet will be pressed against the dresser, okay? I’m using one of my dresser drawers to house my dirty laundry because there is no space here to put a hamper except maybe the middle of the living room where a coffee table would usually go. How can anyone but an actual diagnosed-OCD neat freak live under these conditions without things getting cluttered? Two pairs of pants and a book would pretty much cover the entire bedroom floor.

This apartment is really just too fucking small for a grownup with two cats and ten years’ worth of accumulated belongs, but I can’t afford anything else so I guess I’m just fucked.

I understand what the person who coined the phrase “money can’t buy happiness” was going for, and I agree, money can’t buy happiness. But it can damn sure buy contentment. As much as I love my job and like myself and have great partners in my life and everything, there’s still the constant pressure in the back of my mind of “how am I going to pay my rent through the summer months?” There’s the constant pressure of “My apartment looks like something from Hoarders but I really don’t think there’s that much I can get rid of and there’s also no way for me to move out.”

An unexpected wad of money would in fact go a long-ass way toward making me happy right now.


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I’m not beautiful

Moar PMS-fueled rantings:

I feel like most people’s idea of good self-esteem isn’t being comfortable with ones self, it’s believing that one conforms to societal ideals – particularly beauty ideals.

Like…when I was in my late teens, people used to ask me all the time if I was a model (a fashion model, that is, not an art model) and when I’d say “Noooo, I’m not nearly skinny enough for that” they’d always get a distressed expression and start cooing at me. “Noooo! You’re pretty! Don’t be down on yourself!”

No. Stop it. Fashion models are expected to be, what, a dress size 0 to 4? Back then I was a size 10 on the top and 12 on the bottom*, ergo not skinny enough to model.  Stating a goddamned fact is not “being down on myself.” I thought I had a killer bod back then; I was making a point of mentioning the standard for models so people would understand how fucked up that standard is. I wanted them to go “Wow, so if you’re thin and well-built, and the women doing runway modelling are the same height but six to ten dress sizes smaller…whoa.”

But instead everyone jumped to the conclusion that I must have self-esteem issues because I didn’t see myself as matching the official beauty standards of society.

This new campaign from Dove seems like the same kind of misguided, condescending shit to me. They labeled two doors, one with “beautiful” and the other with “average,” and got all “Nooo! You’re pretty! Don’t be down on yourself!” when a bunch of women didn’t go through the “beautiful” door.

Look, Dove. I think most of us see the word “beautiful” as meaning “conforming to society’s beauty standards.” We all know what those standards are: thin, white, able-bodied, long hair, big eyes, full lips, small nose, long legs, no cellulite, etc. etc. etc. Just because someone knows they are not white or able bodied or thin or whatever doesn’t mean they’re down on themselves.

Basically, Dove, what you’ve done here is set up a premise that a woman’s looks are super important, given her only two ways to see herself (both of which fall within the box of physical appearance being important – there’s no third option for “I don’t care how I’m perceived”) and now you’re whining that it’s just terrible that a woman might acknowledge that she doesn’t look like a fashion model. Oh noes! She’s aware that she doesn’t conform to society’s very specific standards! That must mean she doesn’t think she has any value, amirite?

Look. First of all, my physical appearance isn’t all that important to me. I’ve lived a pretty good life; been loved, been married, currently have a career I love and two-ish partners, all without looking like Cindy Crawford. I do not in fact believe that looking like Cindy Crawford would have gotten me a better or more suitable life for myself than the one I’m living.

Secondly: I’m not beautiful or average. “Beautiful” means “looks like Cindy Crawford” and “average” means “unremarkable; blends into a crowd.” I am a six-foot tall bastion of feminine awesomeness with technicolour hair and motorcycle boots. People notice me. Children openly stare at me. The word I choose for myself is “striking.”

And you can go fuck yourselves for setting up a false dichotomy and then concern-trolling women for choosing the “wrong” one. It’s not my fault you provided two limited, shitty, baggage-fraught options for everyone. That’s on you.

I’m outside your constrictive little box, Dove. It doesn’t make me broken. It makes me free.

Edit: Ha! I figured I wasn’t the only one annoyed with this stupid campaign, and I was right:

*Which apparently is about the right range for “plus size” modelling, but I didn’t know it back then and the people talking to me were not asking me if I was a plus-size model.


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As I’m sure most North Americans know (or at least the women), most stores here only go up to a size 10 in women’s shoes.

I was a size 11 by the time I was 15. Which incidentally was in the 80s – a time of skinny jeans that didn’t stretch – so not only could I never find cool shoes, I also had a hard time finding trendy jeans because my fucking feet wouldn’t fit through the bottom of the leg-holes.

To be honest, I always thought my feet were pretty attractive and well-proportioned, if large (I thought the same about my body, actually) but being forced to wear awkwardly-fitting, unstylish clothes all the time, and having people comment on my size in shock/horror on a semi-regular basis (usually people I knew who for some reason hadn’t noticed my proportions and then one day we’d be standing or sitting next to each other and suddenly “HOLY SHIT HOW TALL ARE YOU?!?!? HOLY SHIT HOW BIG ARE YOUR FEET?!?!?”), made me self-conscious. I got to a point where I wouldn’t wear sandals or open-toed shoes of any kind. I remember asking my mom once if it would be possible to get my toes surgically removed so I could wear “normal” size shoes finally.

Fast-forward a couple of decades and I’m mostly over all of that and doing foot porn to try to capitalize on the niche appeal of me being a giantess. Not only do tons of foot fetishists love my feet, I’ve had a handful of people who have never been into feet tell me that the pics I’ve put on up on my FetLife profile turn them on to a point that they’re having to reassess their sexuality a wee bit.

Not gonna lie, I like hearing that. A lot.

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