Well, after months and months of utter neglect I have made up my mind.

 I’m sick to death of this blog.  It’s too damn ranty and doesn’t contain nearly enough gleeful female domination.  I’m a very different person now than when I started this two years ago, and I just don’t wanna write here any more.  So this will officially be the last entry.

 Stay tuned for the next phase in my evil plan to take over the world with kinky sex…The Kinky Courtesan

I spent most of the weekend in a hotel (more on this later), and had a fairly dramatic lump of shit hit the fan while I was there.  We’d brought the kids up to spend a few hours in the hotel pool, then afterward my (overexcited six year old) son and I ventured out to fetch some dinner.  When I started the car it made a slightly odd noise, like the whisper of a maladjusted belt, but it didn’t seem terribly alarming so I sallied forth anyway.

A few blocks down the road we stopped at the intersection of a very busy road.  The light was long, and when it finally came to be our turn, the car sputtered and coughed its way through, with me frantically praying the whole time that it wouldn’t stall.  On the other side of the intersection was a large shopping center, and I pulled into the nearest parking lot and tried to switch off the engine.  When the engine continued going full strength after I took the keys out I really got alarmed.  I called Sgt, asked him if he had any idea what the hell was going on, or what I should do about it, and the best advice he could offer was to head back to the hotel.

As I did not at all relish the idea of having to push a stalled car across that busy, busy road I elected to circle around the parking lot, in the hopes that the car would either right itself or die completely.  It chose the second option.  About halfway round the lot, just as I coasted to a halt in front of a hardware store, smoke began pouring out from under the hood.  Visions of hollywood-style flames and explosions leapt to mind as I frantically shooed my son out of the car and popped open the hood.  At least the engine stopped this time when I took the keys out!

I walked around to the front of the car and peered through the smoke as a group of interested bystanders began to gather.  Things are sparking, things are spitting, smoke is pounring from several locations, but there are no open flames.  One of the bystanders says (ever so helpfully) “Looks like you’re overheated.”  I look at him incredulously, replying “If it were overheating I don’t think the battery would be shooting out sparks like that.”  I had no idea what was going on, but it was obvious to me that this was something a little more out of the ordinary than a radiator leak.

The only thing to be done at this point was call AAA and wait, which I proceeded to do.  I changed my mind when, nearly an hour later, the towing company dispatcher called to tell me they were very sorry but they didn’t know quite when they’d be able to get to me.  Have I mentioned that my overexcited six year old was with me?  And that he was entertaining himself by banging out a tune with a stick on the nearest light pole, having been threatened with bodily harm if he tried to put his fingers in the engine one more time?

We trudged back to the hotel and there we remained until middday the next day, when my mother-in-law kindly ferried us home.  The car was easily fixed through the ministrations of our excellent mechanic and the application of about three hundred bucks.  (I was right - it was a completely unpredicatble freak problem with the starter)  Not as bad as it could have been but a definite blow to a budget that’s still reeling from a hundred percent increase in homeowner’s insurance, not to mention the new fridge we had to buy two months ago, the rising cost of gas, and all the other extra expenses that have been piling up recently.  I guess I won’t be getting caught up on the past-due bills this month.  *sigh*

So I’m trolling through the Craigslist listings for my town in the “Services: Erotic” category, and I come across this little bit of inanity:

“I do not understand all of these “BBW” providers - and the prices they charge. BBW = fat - why would you pay to go to a BBW provider, when you can just pick up some fat drunk chick at a bar? Chances are the local dive has a fat chick that is cleaner, and free. “

Now this kind of crap pops up all the time, on every adult-oriented board, list, or forum I’ve ever visited.  And usually I just ignore it, figuring that the dimwits who post such nonsense don’t have the capacity for rational thought (or good manners!) so any argument would be lost on them.  I dunno what made me respond this time, it’s not even the most obnoxious fat-bashing post I saw that day on Craigslist.  Maybe I’m feeling a little extra bitchy cause my period’s almost due.  Anyhow, I felt compelled to respond:

“Because all the fat girls are so beaten down by attitudes like yours that very few of them have any confidence at all in their sexuality. Guys who like big girls are looking for the perfect passionate, sexy, adventurous playmate that you are - some drunken insecure bar dweller is not any more to their taste than it would be to yours. And, of course, this explains the high prices too - sexually confident fat girls are rarer even than real TS’s, and a whole lot rarer than dime-a-dozen fake-titted, bleach-blonde, scrawny bimbos.

What I want to know is why jackasses like you think it’s ok to go around in public places like this, posting idiotic and hurtful crapola like you have? Did you think you were doing anybody a favor, really? I mean, none of the fat admirers (and yes, FAT admirers is exactly what they call themselves) come around bitching about how the thin girls (whom you no doubt think of as normal) look like they just vacationed at Auschwitz and really ought to go and eat a sandwich, do they? Or wondering how any straight man can possibly be attracted to someone whose body (apart from the aforementioned fake tits) resembles a young boy’s more than a real woman’s? But it seems like every day there’s a new dickhead on any erotic board you visit who thinks it’s his sacred duty to tell all the fat girls to go starve themselves, and all the men who like them how stupid/abnormal/deluded they are.

Maybe it’s because they’re secretly attracted to fat girls, and hate themselves for it, so they make it all better by spewing vileness at the objects of their forbidden desires. Which, of course, is another reason why a guy might seek a bbw provider: it’s what he *really* lusts after but is too ashamed to be seen with as wife or girlfriend, thanks once again to the idiocy and just plain bad manners of people like you.”

And you know what the funniest part is?  Since posting my ad, my inbox has been flooded with responses from fat loving guys congratulating me for speaking up, and wanting to know if I do escort work.

Whenever things go awry in my world this blog is the first thing to suffer.  In the past month I’ve had yet another vicious ear infection, my pc was in the shop for nearly three weeks and my backup pc (the one normally used by the rest of the family) suffered a meltdown as well. 

I finally got the pc back a couple days ago so I ought at this moment to be getting caught up on all the stuff I’ve got behind on.  Instead I am here to confess that I am addicted to this new (to me anyhow) BBC show Hex, which I have just finished watching.  I am almost ashamed to admit that I’ve developed such devotion for this Degrassi-meets-Dark-Shadows trifle.  (No, I am not a Buffy fan either.)  It’s quite easy to understand why I have though - it’s the lesbian ghost sidekick.

I am past the days when the mere presence of a queer character in a tv show would send me over the moon with delight, but the late Thelma is just so, so delectable.  Witchy powers or not, Cassie doesn’t deserve her. 

 I got what you need, Thelma baby.

The only reason I don’t have a bunch of tattoos and piercings is sheer lack of money. Most of my life that’s been a thing in extremely short supply, and even now it’s squeaky-tight.  Then again, I suppose that if those things were really important to me I would have found a way of procuring them. I have favored other, less permanently visible, expenditures.  Still, I really do want a tattoo.  But every time I mention it it seems like the overwhelming response of my fans is “No! Don’t do it! We like you all-natural!”

{tattoo trivia - did you know that Winston Churchill’s mum, following the vogue for tattoos among refined Victorian Ladies, had a serpent bracelet tattoo?}

I think I’ve figured out how to get the body art I want in a Cherie-subtle manner. I always thought I wanted a tat of a lizard curled around my belly button with one tiny paw grasping the edge and it’s head tilted to look out at you. (So difficult to execute!) Then I thought I might like a “pornstar” tattoo, a big colorful peacock, tail spread, covering the small of my back. (So expensive! So blatant!) But this morning it occured to me that it might be cool to get a leetle teeny tat of a peacock, in brilliant color of course, right at the top of my ass-crack. Tiny enough to be (nearly) covered by my smallest panties. (Now picture me in the tattoo parlour, a breathless audience watching as the artist traces around that itsy-bitsy triangle to define his/her working area.) Then I could truly use the “wanna see my tattoo?” schtick!  *grin*

Later it occured to me that I could take it a little further and have tattoos deliberately positioned in my fat folds, in places that would never ordinarily show. Under the hanging part of my belly, under my breasts, perhaps even in the crease where plump thigh meets big labia. I could have my lizard observing the observer from under my left tit, and “have I shown you my tattoo?” would REALLY mean something! *BIGgrin*

These are the panties my peacock tattoo should (almost) fit under.

p.s.  Notice that I do not mention the pain as a deterring factor - actually, I rather suspect I’d enjoy the process.  That sort of thing usually feels good to me.

The week from hell turned out to have a rather glorious ending. After several months of hard overtime, during which Sgt Knickers has not been available to take naughty pictures of me, I was way behind and had literally nothing left in my photo stockpile. Then, just when the OT was supposed to be ending, Sgt came down with a REALLY bad stomach virus (I was quite worried). So instead of an extra pair of hands with kids & housework I had an invalid to tend and extra laundry. Then to top it all off, my pc succumbed to some equally noxious bug (think it was a spyware issue), which took me the better part of two days to sort out.

The turning point came on Friday, when Sgt was still too wiped out to work but not too ill to hold a camera. I got to get my hair & nails done - a rare treat as good as a vacation! - and we shot some great pics.

Sgt really liked the series of me as a southern belle in a minidress, but my personal favorites were the series of me “at work” in my garden, my pride and joy.

Have I mentioned that planting things turns me on?

Here are a couple of pics of my pride and joy…

Ok, it’s been pointed out to me that I probably ought to be putting some pictures in this thing, to break up all my dry boring rants. *grin* So I thought I’d start off with a video capture from the infamous cucumber show where I broke the stage with my orgasmic thrashing.

Yeah, I know it’s blurry, but I was falling at the time!

So there I am, with a cucumber stuffed in my snatch and a vibrator pressed against my clit, tearing into my fourth orgasm, when I feel the ominous sensation of the “stage” giving way beneath me.

I guess I should have known better than to sit right at the weakest point of a platform I already suspected of being rickety. The little plastic clips holding the two sides of my stage together wiggled loose during my previous exertions and just as I reached my thrashing, moaning peak the two halves decided to part company. I’ve not yet examined the footage but I can just imagine what it looked like as I abruptly dropped from view, accompanied by loud crashing noises and flying debris.

Did I mention that I was in mid-orgasm?

Up until now my most embarrassing on-camera moments have been the times when my dog comes nosing around (don’t get your hopes up, she’s never part of the action). But hey, somebody still said it was hot. I know I will always vividly remember my very first vegetable encounter. *grin*

I wonder if “fat girls busting furniture” is a marketable niche?

I’ve had a noxious ear infection growing all weekend (silly me for not going to the doctor last Friday!) which has kept me from doing damn near anything. Including sleeping. That’s the bad news.

How much does it hurt you ask? Well, you know how in horror movies there’s always somebody with a huge, throbbing boil that at some point explodes, spraying gore everywhere and releasing some kind of horrid beastie? I suspect one of those beasties has taken up residence in the vicinity of my right ear.

The good news is that about the only thing I’ve been able to do is stare mindlessly (and without moving my head too much) at the computer screen, and since Sgt’s been around to play houseboy I have spent the whole weekend in bed doing so. Progress is slow as I am about as doped up as I can be with non-prescription medications, but I’ve managed to finish (more or less) my boudoir redesign.

It’s nice to see how my coding skills have grown over the last year.