Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
I woke as usual to the sound of Matt working away at his desk. He starts at 7AM this week, so he’d been working for a full hour before my day had even begun. With his headset firmly over his ears, he shot me a wave from across the room. I waved back.
“Morning” he said when he’d finished his call, “sleep okay?”
“Mmhmm, you?” I replied sleepily. With still-blurry eyes, I picked up my mobile phone and glanced at my notifications for the day. On there was was an email notification from our housing officer – about time.
To be honest, I was kind of disappointed by the update in the email, although relieved in other ways. They’re finally dropping the nicey-nicey with my neighbour and in its place, he’s now to receive a formal warning instead. It’s long overdue because at present I have to hurdle lengths of wood in order to simply water my garden, so somebody formal cracking down on his ass was exactly what I needed. They’ve been nice to him for too long, they’ve been gentle with him for too long and they’ve had pleasant conversations with him where he’s promised to do the bare minimum asked and then not done anything more, or done other things on top to make the situation much worse. Throughout the lockdowns, he had every opportunity to get something done about his garden, even just a tiny little bit, but then didn’t. The recycling centres are open and waste collections are running again, so this was about his failures as a tenant, rather than unfortunate circumstance.
The disappointing part, however, was that there is a new chap taking on the case, again, so he will now be another new person who I will need to meet with and hash things over with in order for us to make any progress going forward. I’m excited in a way because this time it’s me who gets to talk first, this time it’s me who gets to tell the new housing officer how uncooperative my neighbour is being and its me who gets to express our wants, needs and desires for the garden and believe me, I won’t be holding anything back. Last week I blew the whistle, as it were, and I blew it loud and clear. I presented photographs, a log and a short GIF of my neighbour and the aggressive way that he behaves around me. Just like a rescue ship in the night, I feel as though my landlord has finally heard me and this time, they’re letting me talk first. I don’t feel so alone anymore, I don’t feel so threatened, unsafe and unheard. The rubbish will move, the controlling and coercive behaviour will stop and, hopefully, my neighbour will not be allowed to walk up and down, paint, dig in or do anything else he so desires on our side of the garden. I might not get to have a padlock to keep him off, but I will finally have the assurance and satisfaction that his wings have been well and truly clipped, and by a man, the sex that usually intimidates him. I will be able to garden and to exist in peace and to move around without the constant fear of tripping over whatever shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I hope, this will finally be the answer to my prayers.
Ahh yes, Flick, Matt’s work Mom. I missed Flick, in a way, even if I’d never met her. I missed hearing about her, her daughter or her dog. I missed hearing about the banter that Matt and Flick had. I missed all things Flick, really. Flick, or Felicia, was a large part of life before lockdown.
“Okay, well she blogs full-time but I will let her know.”
Wait what? Who? Who else blogs that you know?
Sure, plenty of other people blog, but who does Matt know that blogs full-time? It’s not me!
“There’s an opportunity,” Matt began, “for a place that deals with long station names”. I almost wanted to laugh. Matt deals with the trains, somehow, though I’m not exactly sure what. There are bits that his company deals with, and other bits that belong to another, with no real clarification between the two. Still, would we be working together again literally now, too?
“They need an admin assistant for three months.”
I almost recoiled in horror. An admin assistant? Never again, not since last time. I liked being part of a team, but I hated being told what to do. I hated the demoralising work, the opening letters, date-stamping them and filing them in alphabetical order. I’d even been given the nickname, “sexetary”, courtesy of my betrothed. It’d be funny if I didn’t hate the role so much. The staff were lovely and interacting with NHS patients, some of whom I personally knew, was exceptional. The workload though? Demeaning, and then there was my dismissal for offences many of which I knew I hadn’t committed and hadn’t ever been bought to my attention before. Arguably, it was grounds for unfair dismissal, but with only four months before my supported employment was up anyway, I decided that it simply wasn’t worth the hassle and I let it go. In a way, the experience shaped me. Did I really want to work in a firm who treated physically disabled people as though they were mentally retarded, too? No, quite frankly, I didn’t.
I love what I do now and, even if its not paying the bills at present, there is so much more to gain from it in other ways. My blog represents me. It represents my ability to organise, to prioritise, to collaborate and to lead. I enjoy working with other people, but I enjoy being able to say “no” from time to time, too. As one such point, I’d always said no to the idea of writing smut or erotica. Nothing against those who do, of course, it’s just that in this world, we have the likes of the talented Ryan Reynolds and we have the likes of the knowledgeable Sir David Attenborough. We have those who want to entertain, and those who want to educate. Now, imagine that I’m like a walking, talking kinky encyclopaedia, but also a B-list actor. Now, you can pretty much see why I stay away from erotica and smut.
In my home, I have a bedroom that could probably raise Christian Grey’s eyebrows when he sees how much money I’ve saved, and how much fun I can have while saving it. If you want to talk smart business and good investment, then believe me, I think not splashing out on premium products is it. Who cares if it’s not leather and brass? Add a few candles and some incense and any cheap bedroom can become a sex dungeon if you want it to be. At a guess, we’ve spent about £500 on our gear, maximum, and over several years. It’s there when we want it, and not for when we don’t. What more can you possibly want? Money doesn’t buy everything, and most people don’t have masses of it anyway, so I’m here to share how we make it work. That’s what I’m all about here on my blog: real BDSM. Fantasy is great, but then people will continue to want to learn how they can go about it for themselves, how they can do it safely and they will want to find people that they can relate to, and that relate to them. That, my friends, is where I’m all too happy to step in. I enjoy being authentic with you in posts like this. Why? Because I know that in some way, you will still relate to me, even if we aren’t strictly talking about BDSM. It’s marvellous, isn’t it?
I believe that we all have a part to play in life, and it just so happens that this, it seems, is mine. It’s not something that I ever imagined doing (I wanted to be a forensic scientist for the longest time!), but here we are. Would I change it? No, quite honestly, not for all the world. I’m helping you have the sex you only dreamed of having before. I’m helping you have those discussions and discover things about yourself, wherever you are in the world. I’m helping you realise that you may be kinky, and realise that it’s okay. I went from being a girl with no hopes, no dreams, no ambitions and no friends to this; a girl who has helped people, a girl who has inspired and uplifted people and a girl who has even made a small contribution to the media. Sometimes, even I’m in disbelief – I feel as though I took a shot among the stars and I struck the moon on my first try! I knew somehow that I was meant to lead, I just never quite knew what in.
I considered the admin assistant position for a while, but I had had to ascertain that I could really do it, or that it was right for me. Three months was nothing, though if it was part-time then it was added money, maybe.
“Is it part-time or full-time?” I asked Matt.
“Three months”. Helpful.
“That’s not what I asked” I said, shaking my head and laughing at his clear-as-muck response.
“I would guess full time” he replied.
“It’s no use to me then” I concluded. “It would fuck up everything I’m on and for three months, its not worth it. I’d struggle with full-time anyway, and I won’t be able to take breaks or adapt when I need to, either”. Plus, I’d have a boss.
Nobody legitimately on benefits wants to be on benefits for their whole life and someday, we’d all love to find something that allows us to earn our own money and contribute positively to society somehow. Personal Independent Payment claims are hard though, and having gone through court to get the money that I’m entitled to, I’m determined not to part with that too easily. I’d need part-time and long-term employment to make it work, with a boss who was understanding of my conditions. Nothing else will do, and this is the reason I struggle and the reason I’m on benefits. Paradoxically, it is also because of my desire to give back something for said benefits that I ever decided to run a blog. My hope is, by the time my claim expires in 2024, my blog will already be fairly successful.
This morning, I tried my hand at sexing my Endler fry. I did a water change yesterday and, just sometimes after a water change, Endler males appear to develop colour almost overnight. I kind of secretly hoped that it would happen as it would allow me to see what I have and to work out a few logistical arrangements. If pelvic exams were degrading, then for Endlers, the sexing process is probably just as bad. Held in a wet catch net, they are raised, tails up, so that their rear ends can be examined. Fish with a larger black spot and a triangular anal fin are female, and fish with a smaller black spot and a slender fin, called a gonopodium, are male. Gonopodiums are interesting because they are essentially an adapted anal fin which is used for transferring sperm to the female during mating, but are almost impossible to see on a fish that’s barely an inch long.
Lack of success concluded, I’ve opted for feeding them up some more, another water change tomorrow and trying again on Friday. From what I can see then I have quite a few males, but as of yet I’m not convinced, and probablu won’t be until they start colouring up. Thankfully, at least sexing human babies is easy.