A stream of conscience post, mostly as a follow-up to my prior post.
In case you haven’t read it, it is just one page back or use this handy link here.
As many of you know, and I have possibly mentioned here once or twice perhaps, comments on some blogs seem to be way down. I did manage a couple of comments on my prior post, thank you very much you two.
It is always hard to guess which posts will garner the most, if any comments. However, based on the initial part of that entry I was really expecting there to be a notable amount of comments.
Yet it wasn’t so.
After giving it some further thought, I have concluded the lack of commentary was due to only one of three possibilities:
1. Most readers understood what I was hinting at and agreed with me, thus no need to comment.
2. Some readers had no idea why I wasn’t a fan of certain schoolgirl fantasies and are still scratching their heads wondering why and how I could possibly be opposed to such. “Isn’t that a core fantasy in these parts” they must be asking and thus are debating if they should even continue visiting here. Confused, they did not know what to comment.
3. Lastly those who understood much too well what I was hinting at, thought best not to argue and have hopefully decided to take it as a cue to walk away. Hopefully.
Did you follow any of that?
If you did, great!
If not, sorry.
Regardless, let’s move along now.
Did I ever tell you about the vintage school desk we bought (and eventually sold).
Way back when (when we were still together), My Girl and I used to live near a school. One summer the school decided to upgrade all the decades old worn wooden desks to new plastic and metal versions, so they had a yard sale of sorts selling off all the old desks. We purchased one on impulse as they were being sold for ridiculous cheap, maybe five dollars if that much.
At this point I bet you think you know where this is going, but I am afraid you would be wrong.
Mind you, although My Girl and I had what could be described as a domestic discipline stylized type of relationship, she was never a fan of role play in and of itself. She did however like to dress up in her short pleated school girl skirts and accessories, but mostly for visual pleasure and I had no objections to it; obviously.
But wait, Enzo, I thought you said…
It may sound confusing on the surface, but it really isn’t.
So we held onto the desk for years. My Girl with the intention of it coming into future use if we were to have a family, it would then serve as a work from home desk; which is what I think the school yard sale had intended these for. In the meantime it served the duo purpose of plant stand and cat napper.
We eventually ended up moving and, as often coincides with moves, we decided to thin out a few things. I posted the desk on Craigslist with the same intent of the original yard sale.
Note that this was at a time we felt very alone in our preferences, hadn’t explored much if any in the real world and thus was surprised by what happened next.
So a gentleman contacts me inquiring about the desk and I let him know it is still available and he shows up bright and early the next Saturday morning. He was older than I had imagined, but figured he was wanting it for his offspring’s offspring. A bald, stocky, serious, drill sergeant type character who was in a hurry.
I walked him around to the side walkway of our place where the desk was waiting. He didn’t look at it twice before he yelled out to his partner to come over.
A woman, about his age, suddenly appeared as he instantly asked her in his gruff voice, “Is this it? Is this what you had in mind?”
I have seldom seen a woman’s eyes beam so positively. She simply nodded.
To this day, I still remember that look on her face.
In a seemingly continuous move, he shoved the paper currency into my hand, scooped up the desk and marched away. In a few second he had loaded it up in the truck and they were gone.
Now, I’m not going to assume here, but I am willing to bet that desk was her idea. And she was ready to put it to use having thought of plenty of fantasies to match it perfectly.
This event was one of the first times I genuinely felt not alone in these preferences.
We were not alone.
You are not alone.