Monday, January 26, 2009

Is She Real?

Why Am I Doing This?

Some blogs beg to be examined for their veracity. I have been following, even quoting from a blog, Femdom 101. The author, Kathy, has an interesting lifestyle with her husband. She and he are not as deviate or whacky as some about (or by) whom we read daily. She has her ideas defined, and she implements them. He goes along. What she writes is entertaining, enticing, erotic, and interesting. I left a comment on her site recently:

Mistress Kathy,

I tend to be skeptical of blogs. I have left comments on blogs, and produced several postings on my own blog that dealt with what I perceived to be fake.

I am also gullible when it comes to females or to those who pass as females. All I mean here is that I am not an authority on ferreting out males who fake being dominant females.

I have stayed with your blog because I find it interesting. I like the way you let all the vitreous comments roll off, and allow your faithful readers to defend you. You don't get down into the gutter with them. That shows class. If you are who you claim to be, I bow before you. If you are faking it, you are doing an excellent job of it, and hurting no one.

I am not a debunker of fake and myth. I do it occasionally because it is fun, and generally helpful rather than destructive. With respect to the above I have some thoughts to explore. I have always wondered how I would handle a situation that I will describe below.

The Trip

I am traveling on business. After work I attend a work-related social gathering where I meet an attractive woman. I am not looking for casual sex, but I welcome female companionship, for I love everything about females. Since I am alone temporarily, I can use a few hours of conversation, pleasantry, and relaxation from work. I find the woman charming to the point where I see nothing wrong with an offer to take her to dinner. We have a date.

I arrive at the restaurant. She is there already, and I spot her right away in a somewhat secluded booth. The subdued lights accentuate her general charms. She is slightly heavier than thin, in her forties. Her makeup is not heavy but well done. She is dark brunette, has green eyes. She is wearing a short-sleeved green dress that hugs her curves, at least those that I can see above the table where she sits. I am thinking, She is too much for me. I don’t need this much temptation. But I stop at the table and hand her a corsage. I thought that it was too early in the relationship to give her underwear, and I can’t afford jewelry. She blushes and gushes with joy.

I sit opposite from her in the booth. I compliment her on her looks, and we order drinks. Her voice is a contralto, but pleasant, just on the verge of masculine. I imagine her with a whip … I must divert my thoughts to avoid a stain on the front of my pants.

Conversation covers a wide range of subjects, and we both enjoy the give and take. Dinner follows. She eats like a human, rather than one of those who live on iceberg lettuce.

At the end of dinner there is the awkward moment of decision. Do I take her home in a cab, do I send her home in a cab, or do I invite her for a drink in my hotel? She beats me to it. She offers drinks at her apartment.

We ride to her place. The doorman acknowledges me and greets her warmly. We take the elevator to her floor, and enter a lavish apartment. I am impressed. I take her coat and hang it in the closet by the front door. She says, “Do fix us some drinks. You’ll find everything in the bar off the living room. I’ll have some Cabernet.”

I find my way to the bar. There are clean glasses on a tray. I pull a bottle of Cabernet off the wine rack, and open it. I pour for both of us, and bring them to the coffee table in the living room. She returns from another room wearing a turquoise silk robe with high-heeled slippers. Her legs are fantastic. Her face is freshly scrubbed. She is not voluptuous, but has definite curves. I try to sway my thinking toward less distractive thoughts. We sit opposite each other, I on the sofa, and she on a chair.

The wine is good. Her voice is soothing. I may have had one too many martinis. She moves to sit next to me. She turns to me and looks me in the eyes. Her clear skin, devoid of makeup, reminds me of sunshine over a green meadow: pure, beautiful, and lovely. In a short time she moves her face close enough such that I smell toothpaste on her breath. Our wine glasses are on the coffee table. She barely touches my lips with hers. I am overwhelmed. I pull back just to keep my presence.

We sip wine not really needing it, but it is something to do. We want to move on. “You are shy, aren’t you?” she asks.

I probably blush in my awkwardness, and mumble something. She takes my hand and puts it over her upper arm, “Do try to feel me. I would love it.”

I follow her suggestion and feel her. We kiss. Her scent is enticing. Her lips taste of wine with a hint of toothpaste. A heady mixture of our hormones promotes our closeness. We have our arms around each other. All is well.

I again have to decide: do I allow this to continue, or let it settle down to just an evening of lovely encounter without deeper involvement. I am hot, she is hot, but I back off. I am not ready. I don’t really know her. I know that I am wasting a terrific opportunity, but it is the way I am.

She senses my withdrawal, and pulls back smiling, “You are not bad. I have had few better kisses.”

Barely managing my composure I say, “I apologize. I am highly turned on, and did enjoy kissing you. But I must wait a bit. We should get to know each other.”

With laughter in her voice she responds, “Ha, you are married!”

“Indeed I am. Although my wife would understand and approve, that has nothing to do with this.”

“Interesting. Does she allow one-night-stands or more serious involvements?”

“I guess, we have never really stated the specifics. She, herself, does what she wants, but I am kind of tentative about this.”

“I can tell. Would you like to call your wife to ask her permission? Or should I ask her?”

I pause feeling very embarrassed about her realizing that I am a bit out of my element. “I’m sorry. This is going way too fast for me. You are a very charming lady, but I am simply overwhelmed.”

As if she had been expecting my answer, she says, “Tell you what. I have a spare bedroom. You are welcome to sleep there. I promise not to overwhelm you in any way. If you still like me in the morning, we will take it up at that point. If not, we will part as friends.”

I feel like a child who has been rescued by an adult. I stammer something, and follow her into the suggested bedroom. She points out the necessary amenities. She gives a peck on my lips and she leaves. In a major way I am disappointed, and am trying to justify my erection in view of my more or less refusal to commune with her.

I shower and go to bed. I must have slept, for I become aware of a voice from the living room through the open door leading to the hall. I put on my pants and walk out. She is sitting on the arm of the sofa talking on the phone. She looks agitated. Not wanting to eavesdrop I back out of the room and close the door. It is about four in the morning. I don’t think I can sleep more, so I brush my teeth, and making some noise, walk in the direction of the living room. She is not there, but I hear her noises in the kitchen. I knock and enter. She stands before the sink in a silk robe. Her hair is a bit messy as if she had just been awakened from sleep. Not wanting to startle her I say gently, “I heard voices, I thought you might need some company.”

“It was a phone call from family. Sorry about waking you.”

“That is all right. Was it bad news?”


“Can I do something for you?”

“A hug would feel good right now.”

I don’t need more prompting. I walk to her and fold my arms around her. I feel her softness gently but protectively. She rests her head on my chest. I have to arch my back a bit to avoid being blatant with my growing erection. I think she does not notice.

She does not want to talk about the phone call. We make coffee and chat about trivia.

“So, it is morning. Are you staying or leaving?”

“I have my work to do.”

“After that?”

“I can’t leave you if you are distraught. Can we talk?”

Instead of talking she takes my hand and leads me into her bedroom. The bed looks barely slept in. She pushes me down on it and lies beside me. I cannot contain my erection. She notices and playfully pokes a finger at it.

“You want me to do something about that?” she asks.

“I can’t imagine what that would be.” I try to be noncommittal.

She turns off the lights. With the drapes over the window room is mostly dark. She removes her robe, and we hug as we lie side by side. Then she moves down toward the end of the bed, coming face to face with the bulge in my pants. She opens the zipper. My not wearing underwear is a reason why my something pops out immediately. She finds it.

It does not take long for me to succumb to her loving care. She does not spill a drop. After a while I say, “This was wonderful. But now I feel guilty. I received, and I must give in kind.”

“Not many men would be willing to do that.”

“I know, but I am willing to do a lot for a lovely woman like you.”

“Do you really wish to do that? Now?”


“Be careful what you wish.”

“Well, I am a little kinky that way. It is easy to demonstrate my prowess and my willingness when horny, but it takes a real dedicated lover to do it afterward, you know?”

“Fine. I will be back in a minute.” She grabs her robe as she walks toward the bathroom.

I leave to clean up a bit, and return wearing my boxer shorts only. Sitting on the edge of the bed I wait for her. She returns in a short time. She stands in front of me pressing her breasts into my face. I can hardly wait to continue. She pushes me down, and lies next to me again as before. We kiss, fondle, and I pull open her robe. I begin to head south just as she had done a few minutes before, but I manage to kiss and lick the territory between her lovely breasts and what I encounter going south.

I am already turned on, regardless of my not being horny based on common assumption of after orgasm. After all, being horny is not just hormones. In my experience, it is in the mind of the beholder of the male equipment. I really look forward to more than one thing. Pleasuring a woman orally had always been a joy for me. Pleasuring her after she pleasured me is not only an obligation, but a joy. And then, I have to prove to her that I meant what I said. This is not exactly a test for me. Rather, it is a re-affirmation of my fortitude to please a deserving woman.

But there is something wrong! I feel something between our bodies that is like a third person, in a way. I am just a few inches from my target. I reach down with my hand, and find what I would expect between my own thighs. And it is hardening as I touch.

I freeze in my attempt to go further, and try to formulate a reasonable comment to explain why I can’t proceed. She must have sensed my predicament, for she says, “I can’t believe that you had not guessed all this time.”

“I think that you are too much of a woman for me to have guessed,” I blurt.

After an awkward second of silence, she bursts out laughing, and I join her in genuine mirth myself. I roll over, partly lying on my back across her. After our laugher subsides to occasional giggles, I move up to see her face to face. “Aside from the unexpected encounter, I have found you a beautiful and fascinating woman. Would you mind a goodbye kiss?

“I would love one.”

We kiss. It is still good, but somehow I cannot not help thinking what I had missed by finding the unexpected.

She offers to make breakfast, and I graciously accept. After breakfast I dress and we part as friends.

Aside from that one little (actually it was not that little) problem, she would have been a wonderful female friend while I was out of town. I still wonder what I would have done if I had stayed a little longer.

The Usual Disclaimer

The above story is not totally real. I am not saying what I am willing to do or wanting to do in the above scenario, although I would love to be squeezed to provide the answer, assuming that I had it. The point of the story is that we encounter situations where we don’t have the answers, and make decisions on what is evident, and what we feel. Reality may be much different. Let’s say that I took the course of the regular male who is not into homosexuality, by parting under the circumstances described. What does that make me? Am I homosexual? After all, I succumbed to the charms of a person who appeared to be very feminine, even to the extent of more than cursory examination, but she was not a real woman!

OK, I did not grope her genitalia, a-la-Crocodile-Dundee, but other than that I did all that it takes. Should I wash my mouth with soap?

What if I had developed a suspicion, but was intrigued by it and continued?

What if I had found her surprise and continued with nonchalance? What would have been the outcome?

Would I have been pursuing a very sexy female, or my own fantasy of something else?

I know that I would not have turned violent. Some men are very sensitive about this. Any hint of them being homosexual induces instant retaliation. I have never been called a "homo”. Depending on the circumstances I would have different reactions. Being called one does not make me one. Then again, I could be called worse names, so I really don’t give a you-know-what.

So, when I evaluate a blog that is assumed to be published by a dominant female, but appears to be just another male fantasy, I don’t take it too seriously. If you want to believe it is real, fine. I may make my comments, but I am not saying that the particular blog has no right to exist. Even if it is fake, some people, including the author, take joy and satisfaction from it. All that is well, and not much different from a novel of prurient nature. Except, the author of the novel is not trying to deceive.

1 comment:

Richard said...

There have certainly been bogus femdom blogs. I can't remember what I thought of the one you reference. Haven't read it in some time.

Most of the fakes I've seen tend to talk about cuckoldry. For some reason that and sissyfication often seem to drive men to create fictitious kink lives online. There's also an odd verbal texture to some of them that I've never been able to define. Possibly stemming from the authors sharing some stereotypical notion of what a dominant female might write like.
(I discovered you by looking at the referrer logs of one of my sites, Sex is Funny. Thanks for the link.)