Kink In Exile

I cast my early vote today, after standing in line for half an hour at city hall and then working my way through 22 local ballot measures.  (Should we replace the emergency tax with an emergency fee of the same amount?  Do I really care?)

I’m curious now if all my kinky friends will be voting no on 8 (the proposition to ban same-sex marriage) and yes on K (allow the SFPD to outright ignore laws against prostitution, while still enforcing existing laws against rape and battery even if the victim is a prostitute).  I’m wondering if our sexuality, our openness about sexuality in specific, is based on our political outlooks.  Perhaps it forces us to be liberals in an effort to our selves stay out of jail.

What do you think?  Chicken or egg?

I am not old enough to be complaining about the times, really I’m not.  But what is it with everyone suddenly wearing collars?  Specifically, what is it with sweet young men (handsome ones at that) wearing collars while letting me cut in front of them at the bank?  I mean the Jen Cross reading, or a goth club I can understand, but at the bank?

Don’t get me wrong, I have not jumped on the moral majority band wagon.  My complaint is more selfish…where do you get off being a tease at 10am on a Tuesday.  I mean I can’t very well start picking up boys at the cashier’s window, and for all I know he is there on an errand for someone else, but damn that’s pretty.

As an aside: collar, long hair, and downcast eyes == hot.  This also reminds me that I need to write about LitCrawl and all the wonderful porn I heard.

“…and whatever the lady wants.” He says this without looking at me: dismissive and accommodating rolled into one. It’s the kind of passive sexism that doesn’t happen to me, and it makes me wet. He doesn’t care what I want, doesn’t care about the money either, just as long as I look pretty and keep my mouth shut. Later he’ll take me up to his flat. He’ll push me against the wall, and pull a knife out of a hidden pocket in his expensively tailored suit. He’ll slice my dress off in ribbons, and I’ll have the momentary distraction of “what will I wear next week” before he forces me to my knees. And later, much later, as I walk out of the bathroom still naked he’ll tell me my money is on the bed. I’ll walk over and pick up a stack of crisp hundred dollar bills. I’ll gather my raincoat from where it lies in a puddle of red vinyl by the door, and wrap it around my naked body. I’ll stuff the cash, haphazardly, into a pocket, and go out to hale a cab savoring the ache of fresh bruises.