If You’re New to Fetlife…

On the surface, Fetlife is a dark room that hosts orgies and films smut. We’re the Facebook of Pornhub, and we will show you our diamante-clad buttholes if it’s the last thing we do. This is a world in which the female body is drooled upon and the male body, pushed into your inbox alongside a remote control and a pair of dirty socks. Fet’s entry hall smells of cum and filthy laundry, but if you walk in a little deeper, we’ll show you a whole other room.

This is where we get bloody and scarred. Fetlife won’t introduce you to our kink lives on a subtle gradient. No. Here’s a scarrified torso, and here’s a pair of balls wrapped around an unidentified metal contraption. We don’t care if you’re just into a little light spanking. If you walk into the Gore Room by accident, you don’t get a trigger warning.

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We keep abusers in the basement who have a nose for new and vulnerable subs. We host cultish masters and dudebros who are in search of their next wank fest. If you thought the entryway smelled bad, stay away from the dudebros. They don’t clean out their fridges or clean the sheets.

Continue reading “If You’re New to Fetlife…”

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Things I Have to Say that Have Nothing to do with Getting Revenge on your Dom for Putting You on an Orgasm Diet

  • Can you melt down silicone? I’m just asking for an art project, and not because The Giant Buttplug™ might prefer life as a blue pancake. I mean, it probably would prefer living that way because nobody wants to be put into an ass on the regular, but who would ever kill a butt plug just to get revenge? Nobody.
  • It’s generally believed that it’s unsubmissive to force his computer spell out “space” every time he hits the space key. That’s why I’d never tell you the AutoHotKey scripts for that are #No TrayIcon and *Space::Send,SPACE. My lips are sealed.
  • Let’s say you stuck notes all over the house. And let’s assume for a second that those notes were spoilers for The Walking Dead. Let’s say your dom read all those spoilers. Would he give you a spanking? I guess he might, but I’m just asking as an exercise for my Kink Philosophy Class. I’m not suggesting you actually do all those things.

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  • I mean if you’re into spankings, you could theoretically just throw glitter in his underwear drawer, which is way easier than writing out spoilers. Again, I’m not suggesting it, just thinking about it on an existential level.
  • For Geography Month, I learned that people in Reykjavik, Iceland, scatter teeny chocolate brownie crumbs they shaped to look like rat droppings around their doms’ favourite breakfast cereal. Just one more interesting piece of trivia for those who like learning about new cultures.
  • There’s such a thing as a Dvorak alternate keyboard that changes everything he types into random letters. Thanks for subscribing to Daily PC Factoids by NotSpanishRed. (This is not a link to the instructions, so don’t bother clicking it. It’s just another Rick Rolling URL.)
  • No, really. It’s Rick. Would I ever write a post that didn’t include a Rick Roll? Exactly.

There Can Be No Pretence Here in the Tears and the Sweat and the Cries

The standard Zulu greeting translates into English as “I see you.” I’ve always loved that little piece of language for all it says about connection. It doesn’t waste time with “hello” as though there is meaning in empty words. It doesn’t ask anything of you. It simply sinks beneath the flesh and finds connection there, and nothing characterises that better than BDSM for me. There can be no pretence here in the tears and the sweat and the cries. I see you. You see me, and we’ll never go back to being oblivious to one another after this.

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I once knew a man who thought he could fix all my problems. When I left him, I swore never to get involved with someone who saw me as a puzzle to solve. I once knew a man who told me every single one of his life’s puzzles without once telling me how he felt about them. When I rejected him, I swore never to waste my time on someone who was too oblivious of himself to see anyone else. I once knew a man who threw money at my puzzles as though life could be bought with two months’ salary and a bonus cheque. I once knew a man who was blind to all but himself, but then I met someone who trusted me to solve my own puzzles.

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Signs That You Might Be Kinky

There’s no such thing as “disposable” chopsticks.

Your wooden spoon has become lost in an alternate dimension. It used to be in your kitchen, you swear it, but the celestial ether swallowed it. There’s literally no other explanation for its disappearance.

You spend your hikes cutting off the perfect bendy branch, then dumping it when you find a more perfect bendy branch. Repeat ad infinitum.

No, you can’t get that vitamin B injection today because… because… your pain threshold is too high. And your jeans are permanently welded to your ass. Your butt ran off with the wooden spoon yesterday and you’ve yet to find either of them.

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Your boyfriend tests his shampoo on his chest hairs before using it on his head.

Your boyfriend has three random bald patches on his chest, though you know not why. Maybe he’s using the wrong brand of shampoo. Maybe if he bought you the perfect stilettos the shampoo might decide to stop creating bald patches. Shampoo is snippy that way.

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Things I Say to My Dog that I Could Also Say to My Exboyfriend

  • Leaning over to change the channel is not an invitation to put your nose halfway up my butt.
  • If you’ll just stop drooling on my thigh, I might let you play with your balls.
  • IF YOU PEE ON MY LEG I WILL TAKE YOUR MEATY TREATS AWAY FOR A WEEK BLOODY HELL!
  • Aw, you brought me a bone! Good boy! I love bones almost as much as I love furry hugs.
  • No, you may not lick my nose.
  • Fetch the belt. Good boy. <pat pat>
  • Dude! The vacuum cleaner isn’t that scary.

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  • If you stopped grabbing food every time I open the fridge, you might be interested in your dinner for a change.
  • That’s what happens when you eat seven loaves of bread and a rose hip.
  • Why is there toilet paper strewn over the TV set?
  • I was literally gone for five minutes, not five centuries you ass.
  • If you don’t stop licking your balls I will put a cone over your head.
  • Aw, I love you Furry McCuddlebutt the Third.
  • Yes, way more than chocolate.

How a Sociopath Got the Girl

My friend, Barbara, once went on a bad Tinder date. When she told him she didn’t want to see him again, he began the classy process of blowing up her phone several times a day. Since “leave me alone” didn’t work, she threw a temper tantrum and deposited it in his inbox.

But she mistyped the email address and got a response from a man called Bruce. His reply was all kinds of charming. He had hoped, he said, to have met her before she wrote him off so cruelly. Wasn’t she rejecting him a little too soon?

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That’s how Barbara’s life turned into a rom-com with its own meet cute. She and Bruce exchanged emails for a month before she decided she had to meet him. Two years later, he moved to South Africa and married her. Barbara says theirs is the most mature relationship she’s ever had, and no wonder. Bruce is kind. He’s honest and thoughtful. He has all the “boring” traits Tinder Guy says he has but doesn’t.

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When an Abusive Person Decides to Do Therapy

Leaving an abusive person is as easy as stopping the rain with a cocktail umbrella. I had to hold one thought in my mind long enough to run: That thought was, “It’s not me, it’s him,” and everything he’d done was designed to make me believe the opposite: It wasn’t him, it was me because I was fatally flawed. Because I begged him to stop. Because I was pathetic. Because I cried every damned day like a fucking child. Because I could no longer work out where I ended and my confusion began.

Because I had no idea who I was anymore.

When I managed enough clarity to tell him I was done, the promises of therapy began. After months of refusing to acknowledge it, he suddenly realised he’d hurt me. His behaviour was inexcusable. He completely understood why I’d end it, but if I stayed, he’d see a psychologist. He swore it, true as the rain that was falling around me.

He didn’t do therapy.

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How dare I suggest he even needed it? He couldn’t afford it just yet. He didn’t say it. He was coerced into saying it. It never happened at all. Every day came with a new and opposing statement until every bit of clarity I’d achieved fell at my feet.

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