Smut Schmut

So I’m about 10 pages into that smut book that I bought the other day and I’m already rolling my eyes and irritated with it.

I simply do not like to read about sex. Weird, considering I write about it myself but *shrug* there it is. I find the descriptions to be cheesy. Things like “dying a thousand tiny little deaths” and “calling out to the heavens”… Pfft. Honey, you got laid. No need to pretty it up beyond that. Sheesh.

What’s irritating me even more with this book is the vocabulary. Now, I don’t mind reading a book that teaches me new words and challenges me to look up something so I can follow along. Most of the time I enjoy it.

However.

A smut book that I bought for half price at B. Dalton? I’d really like to leave my copy of Webster’s on the shelf, tyvm.

If, in the first ten pages I’ve had to look up four words, I’m likely to find easier smut to read.

“His lingam did not fit my yoni…”

Srsly? Seriously? You couldn’t just say “he had a big cock” or something? How many words for genitalia does one need to know anyway??

I’m going to stick with the Age Per Page Rule* on this book. Though I anticipate the next 51 pages to be painful to get through.

In other news:

I’m having a difficult time finding Fetlife interesting these days. I’m sure the interest will return, but every now and then talking about it is irritating. I just wanna do it and live it, and not feel the need to defend it, explain it, criticize it, judge it, etc., etc. And that’s really what Fet is about- at least in most of the groups I’m a member of. And the groups where we all pretty much agree with each other tend to get boring simply because sitting there nodding at each other doesn’t have nearly enough drama to hold my attention for very long.

So boo on Fet, for awhile anyway.

Although… the other day I was watching a video on Fet and I almost lost my lunch. It was one of those where the jaded little voice in the back of my head was trying to warn me, saying “tess, you know what’s going to happen next” and the voice with unwavering faith in humanity was replying, saying, “no way. Nobody REALLY eats chunks of shit off of-OH MY FUCKING GO-*gag* *puke* *gag*-

So yeah. Now I’m even leery of the videos.

Of course Master finds that to be hella amusing and likes to bring it up just to watch me do that involuntary heave. And then he’ll go on to say how he could see himself doing that to me and how much he would enjoy watching me gag and struggle through it and-

*involuntary heave*

Nevermind. Let’s move on, shall we?

Disclaimer: It’s not that I think badly of people who engage in scat. More power to ya, if that’s your thing. I don’t think you’re any more sick or disgusting that I am.

It’s just not my thing. I’m sure some people have gagged over some of the shit (pun optional) that we do.

What else….

We haven’t yet started on the remodeling I want to do downstairs. Party because, as I’ve said before, we are expert procrastinators. Partly because the weather really hasn’t been conducive to hauling bare woods or drywall in the back of a pickup truck. Party because I’ve got to find somewhere to put all of the stuff that’s going to be in the way and I’m reluctant to do that when I don’t know when or if he’s ever going to start on it because it’ll get on my nerves to have shit where it isn’t supposed to be for an extended period of time. (Holy run-on sentence, Batman.)

And also partly (mostly) because Master really despises having to work on his time off of work. And I really despise asking him to. So I’m warring with myself over asking for it (and not crossing the line into nagging for it) or just trashing the whole idea. Except I know it’ll really improve the looks of things and be way more convenient and organized so there’s another part of me thinking… dare I say it… oh I do. I dare. I’m thinking ’suck it up, buttercup’.

Yep. That’s the message I’m going to give him.

And then, I shall move in with one of y’all.

And THAT thought has sparked another thought that has a post percolating. I’m off to let it percolate while I do laundry. BBL!

~cunt

*The ‘Age per Page Rule’ was taught to me by a 90-something year old woman who loved to read and, at her age, was reading by magnifying glass. She said that one was to read the number of pages that equals your age subtracted from a hundred and if you still weren’t “into” the book, then scrap it. (I’m 39 and 39 from 100 is 61. I’ve read 10 pages, I have 51 miserable more pages to go)

Life- and your eyesight- was too short, she said, to be wasted on crap writing.

I couldn’t agree more.