In the third floor men's room

 

“Go to the men’s room and do it there, thinking of me,” she told me, and like a submissive following a directive of a goddess, I do, climbing in the one stall on the third floor because I was scared to be seen going into the one near the owner’s office on the first.

But even as I stroked it, I kept waiting for someone else to come in, the stall door having gaps that allowed anyone to see me with it in my hand, worse, could hear the slap of flesh on flesh, and eventually the moan when it spurted in my hand, all this she wanted me to describe in detail when I got back to my desk.

Even back then, I knew just how much more experienced she was in these things, how to turn on a man like me like a light switch, and leaving me to sputter when not turned off.

She had asked other men to do these things, had them cradling their manhood in public space for her amusement, asking us to take a picture with our cell phones just to prove we had done what she told us to do, and even as old as I was, older than she, I felt like a kid, unable to fully grasp her intentions, or deal with the self-torture these things forced me to inflict upon myself, my imagination painting an even more vivid picture of what was possible and how far we might go, and how she might tell me to go there, in public, or in the dead of night.

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She is a slut May 28, 2026

 

She is a slut.

This is not a pejorative statement.

These days a slut is a liberated woman, who controlled who she has sex with, while continuing to have a much of it as she likes, sometimes with questionable characters, other times with men she thinking might provide her with opportunities in a world where men rule, often leaving a landscape strewn with cuckhold men, who mistook her attention for love., men like me, who watch her walk off with men I know, or others like husbands or boyfriends who mistakenly believed they could keep her corralled, when there is no attachment, a fashionable lady ahead of her time, doing what is a fact of life, a pretty woman who prowls night clubs and other dives like a shark looking for guppies to devour, while men like me continue to adore her.

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Lion Tamer May 29, 2026

 

I wake and it hits me, not hot or cold, just there, pressing on m chest and groin, I struggle to breathe.

How do we love this away, born each day bearing the same burden, the constant urge, the irresistible temptation, the struggle to overcome what we generate inside, love, an illusion we hang on to in order to decorate something we wish for rather than anything real, the roughness of it, rubbing against us each time we move until it rubs us raw. We stagger with it all day, sleep with it all night, waking again elevated, needing to appease it, stroke by stroke, a remedy that works for so brief a time we forget we had relief at all, until it overwhelms us again, we lion tamers without chair or whip to keep back the inevitable.

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Waking from the nightmare Nov. 11, 2012

 

Thinking back, it still haunts me, a double life in which we live day or night, as if we are different people, and I find I lost you in the day light and cling to the one I secretly crave by night, life once a romance amid paper clips, file folders and mistaken emails, divorced from when someone better came along, the man or men with that Midas touch, and the determination to keep you – as if you could be kept by any man, you keep yourself, while I became the cuckhold on the stairway between two floors, forced to bear witness from afar, imagining the worst, men doing what I wished I could still do, a secret life live behind the meetings and memos, while in the end, I tried to avoid the angry looks, the cold shoulder, while knowing the real view from her desk was of somebody’s bed, breeding nightmares in me that are still nightmares when I wake up, the illusion fading now that someone else has that desk, a strange face I see when I expect to see yours.

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A box of chocolate February 14, 2013

 

 

I would bring her a box of chocolates, but she would only hate me for it, just as she did that night in the bar when she humiliated me for bringing her flowers and candy, when she never told me she hated those kinds of gifts, and that somehow, I should have been aware of this fact, that night when she seemed ready to turn me into a cuckhold, inviting me for this belated birthday drink only to spend most of the night flirting with the bartender, so intimate their connection, I suspected that night she would likely leave with him, when I exercised my only option and left.

I still recall her screaming at me over the phone, as to why I left her at the bar, as I took the long stroll up the hill for home, as if I had spoiled one of her grand plans, even a box of chocolate could not make up for, and every day since I have relived those moments in the bar and afterwards, revisiting it all, examining into the most minute elements for something I might have missed, might have done differently, something I could have changed that might have brought about a different outcome, assuming finally I could have done nothing, she would have gone off with the bartender, condemning me to watch.

 

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Her nails

  

When her nails click on the table top, I think she’s angry, though at times when I look up into her eyes, she seems calculating.

All this might be wrong.

But each time we come to the same place at the same time, I check out her fingernails,

 whether they were polished or not, what color they are, do they match the color of her lips.

The brighter the color of lips and fingernails tells me she must be horny, other colors mean other things much like a mood ring.

They are darkest in a bad way when she looks at me.

I recall her nails being blood red those few times we dated, a color she long ago abandoned, except when around other men in our office who I think she’d like to date. It drives me wild to think about, even if none of it is true.

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For her pleasure May 31, 2026

 

I didn’t know it at the time, and only learned it now, but with a girl like her, it has to be pleasing her or it will never work.

This is what sissy world and their goddesses understand best, and I think that was the lesson she learned on the cruise with that old lady.

Men are best when they serve her interests, and that their who lives should be focused on ways to make her happy, not their own pleasure.

This is how women really survive, shifting the balance of power, if not literally castrating men, the way Goddesses do when creating sissies, then making sure the men who want her attention must serve her first.

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