Tag Archives: public humiliation
I’m have certainly never been one to search out a discreet vibrator. I have explained the uses of more then my fair share of sex toys and bondage equipment to airport security personal.
In fact, I have opened my suitcase and had my rabbit pop out in more then my fair share of airports, shocking more then my fair share of fellow travelers.
It’s hard to be shy about these things when you just aren’t… smooth. I have a mad crazy skill for humiliating myself in public.
Flirting with my ungodly hot contortion instructor and went to pull up my yoga pants. Gave myself a g-string wedgie instead. #SexyFail
— Mona Darling (@DeadCowGirl) March 9, 2013
Notice that five of my “friends” liked the fact that I just gave myself a nearly fatal wedgie. I have the best friends!
But I digress.
This is a txt exchange between myself and the lovely @QueeieBradshaw after my first pole dance class. She obviously loves and supports me.
When I told my sister, her response was “Ooh! Sexy!”
Sure. If your idea of sexy is a doughy Lucille Ball trying desperately to climb a pole while a crowd of shocked strangers watch on in horror, then yes. Sexy. Extremely.
I have always admired strippers for their athleticism. My friends and I have a rule. If you are at the rail, you must tip every time a stripper does a pole trick. But people. I had no idea. You place your knee against the pole. You smile in the mirror, lift your chest, stick your boobs out, and slowly, with much grace and sensuality, pull your lard ass up the pole. Using all your noodle arms. Then squeeze your legs around the pole, let go with your hands, yes, holding on with nothing but your, now screaming, bruised inner thighs, grab higher and pull yourself up again. Rinse and repeat.
There is something titillating about playing out in public. The threat of getting caught in a compromising situation, or having someone notice their slave collar is highly erotic. Sometimes it’s as simple as wearing diapers under their cloths or a very pale lip gloss, or as obvious as having to pay for a coffee with hands sporting brightly colored nails. It’s very individual, and sometimes very subtle. I have a client who gets a huge thrill from being out in public in jeans because in his mind, anyone seeing him in tight Levi’s instead of his customary slacks would know for certain that he was a kinky cock hungry twink out on the prowl.
Because, obviously. You know. No one else wears tight jeans.
Sometimes there is no understand the male mind. Sometimes you just need to play along.
Last weekend was my sisters bachelorette party. Being the Matron Of Honor, I decided that rather then drunkenly lick whipped cream off the nipples of a strange man wearing nothing but a sock made up to look like a giant nose, I would give her and her friends a tour of my city.
It started Friday evening with a visit to my favorite Korean Spa to get the skin scrubbed off us, followed by sake and japanese food. And champagne cocktails back at the room. Then martinis in the hotel bar till they kicked us out, then back to the room to drink a thermos of cherry chocolate shots that were supposed to last us the entire weekend.
That was our quiet evening. Or at least that was the plan.
The next morning we were off to High Tea followed by shopping at some of my favorite stores – including, of course, my favorite sex toy store. Then back to the room to relax, drink more champagne cocktails and get ready for a night of visiting my favorite bars and bartenders.
I have always had big boobs. Being a sex worker means that LOOONG before I feed Monkey with these knockers, they put food in my mouth.
I also breastfeed my older three, about 4 million years ago when I was a teen.
This means, that despite my plastic surgeons best work, I have Big Saggy Boobs. Mommy boobs.
I have two sets of bras. The mommy bras that keep things from bouncing too much, the white ones are not so white any more and the darks ones, well, they are not happy either. Let’s just say they have not led the hand wash, line dry life they would have liked.
Then there are the Work Bras. These are the ones from Fredricks of Hollywood that are modern engineering marvels. They lift, they do their best to separate and they give their all to make sure I can’t see my feet.
I arrived in San Diego a bit terrified. Truthfully, I was trying to remember why I thought this whole, go to a strange city by myself to hang out with 125 women I don’t know, thing was a good idea. I spent the night before holed up in my room with my laptop and my free wireless and enjoyed a quiet night by myself watching a Monk Marathon. I wondered if maybe, next time, I could save the money on the flight and the convention ticket and just tell my Mr that I was going, but really? Just get a hotel down the street.
I could sit in my underwear and read blogs and eat junk food in peace and then go home the next day and tell him I needed to nap because I was hung over from partying with the Mommy Bloggers and then go spend the $$ I saved on shoes.
Every once in a while, for no reason what so ever, I will think of the word wiener and giggle a little. Usually out loud. Usually in public. And most of the time, in an inappropriate situation.
Like just now. In the library’s silent study area.
It’s because of my husband.
Because he overhear the following conversation in the mens room at Disneyland between a father and his 5 year old son.
Son. Loudly: “Daddy. You have a huge wiener.”
Father. under his breath: grumble grumble donttalkaboutthat grumble
Son. MUCH more loudly: “But you doooo!“
Today I rode the train into The City for a girlie lunch. As in, two girlies, no toddlers. Last night I could barely sleep with anticipation for you see, I have not actually had a girlie moment out without a client or toddler or anything in… months. Mayhaps years.
My biggest question – What Do Girlies Talk About?! Would I remember how to socialize with a grown up or would I sit across from her in uncomfortable silence staring at her cleavage with nothing to say other then… “did you see that episode of Yo Gabba Gabba where Muno is scared to get on that train?”
I promised myself I would not talk about infertility or work (for yes, she is also a Dominatrix) and I WOULD NOT CRY.
Within the first two seconds of her walking into the restaurant I’m all… “Miscarrige, IVF, Infertility sucks, WAAAAHHH!! Soo.. how’s work.”
I did however manage not to stare at her cleavage OR talk about Yo Gabba Gabba. Too much. Mainly because she was wearing a scarf.
Last night after my session (which was a combination service and whipping session and in itself made me feel better) I treated myself to a cleansing evening at the local Korean Spa. I sat in the heat and watched the parade of local naked girls walk by and realized a couple things.
First. We women come in a LOT of shapes and sizes. Not many of them Playboy ready.
- The adorable curvy girls who mentioned being from the Pacific Northwest and sported HUGE dark bushes to prove it.
- The skinny ass lil tattoo’d and shaved (yes, down there. No landing strip, no nothing) Suicide Girl types.
- The HUGE chicks. Both tall and… well. Just big. Two of them. Taking up most the hot tub. Making me feel very very small. They were sorta loud too.
- The tiny little asian girls who sat in the water with their towel wrapped around them. Can’t tell you much of what was under there. It was tiny, and I’m thinking pretty firm.
Yesterday I spent some quality girlie time with a good Domme friend of mine co-topping a submissive who’s main interest is erotic humiliation -mainly in public. Humiliation is always a tricky one. What one person finds erotically humiliating, another just finds humiliating. What the difference? No one knows. Sometimes even the parties involved don’t know until it actually happens. And if you are reading forward in this to read some explination?