Jingle.
So, I had that head cold a while back, and it filled my mind with the most distractingly randy thoughts. I don't know why this always happens. The 'flu kills my sex drive deader than Julius Caesar, but a cold turns it into a rampaging juggernaut of filth. It hasn't stopped, either.
And it's officially Christmas season, too, which means that I walk into a store and within five minutes, Jingle Bell Rock will come on. It's like a curse.
The thing is, Jingle Bell Rock always reminds me of ponyboys. I cannot explain this. I truly cannot. The connection formed one day* and is apparently now indelible. It's embarrassing. I have always said I hate that song, but I now have a Pavlovian reaction to it. I get all misty-eyed. I stop in the middle of sentences and just drift away. People tolerate this with good humor. I guess they think I'm reminiscing or something.
I'm really thinking about Steven Strait and Tom Welling in jingly harnesses and bits, with pony-tail butt-plugs. Usually someone stops me before they are being riding-cropped into running a race in the snow to see who gets to mount the other. Kate Beckinsale will do for the severe, crop-wielding trainer if Monica Belluci has the day off. Just so long as they can turn the dirty talk up to eleven.
So it is not without a sense of deep irony that I opened my mail today and found this lovely bit of SO VERY NOT SAFE FOR WORK perversity tucked inside my spanking-new hardcover of Michael Manning's Inamorata. It's a small ink original, 4" x 4".
I turned a list of my kinks over to metalweb for the commission (and boy, wasn't that an educational little exercise) and lo and behold, I get kink in return. Drooling young ponyboys, three-ways, buttsex, leather harnesses, and helpless lust.
Oh, god, I can't wait to frame this and hang it where my in-laws will see it.
Giddy-up, jingle horse, pick up your feet. . . .
* With very little digging, I went back and found the exact day, too. Would it surprise you to learn that metalweb is responsible? I thought not. I didn't get the appeal of ponyboys until I saw his work. It's a little odd actually being able to identify someone who made my mind even dirtier.
And it's officially Christmas season, too, which means that I walk into a store and within five minutes, Jingle Bell Rock will come on. It's like a curse.
The thing is, Jingle Bell Rock always reminds me of ponyboys. I cannot explain this. I truly cannot. The connection formed one day* and is apparently now indelible. It's embarrassing. I have always said I hate that song, but I now have a Pavlovian reaction to it. I get all misty-eyed. I stop in the middle of sentences and just drift away. People tolerate this with good humor. I guess they think I'm reminiscing or something.
I'm really thinking about Steven Strait and Tom Welling in jingly harnesses and bits, with pony-tail butt-plugs. Usually someone stops me before they are being riding-cropped into running a race in the snow to see who gets to mount the other. Kate Beckinsale will do for the severe, crop-wielding trainer if Monica Belluci has the day off. Just so long as they can turn the dirty talk up to eleven.
So it is not without a sense of deep irony that I opened my mail today and found this lovely bit of SO VERY NOT SAFE FOR WORK perversity tucked inside my spanking-new hardcover of Michael Manning's Inamorata. It's a small ink original, 4" x 4".
I turned a list of my kinks over to metalweb for the commission (and boy, wasn't that an educational little exercise) and lo and behold, I get kink in return. Drooling young ponyboys, three-ways, buttsex, leather harnesses, and helpless lust.
Oh, god, I can't wait to frame this and hang it where my in-laws will see it.
Giddy-up, jingle horse, pick up your feet. . . .
* With very little digging, I went back and found the exact day, too. Would it surprise you to learn that metalweb is responsible? I thought not. I didn't get the appeal of ponyboys until I saw his work. It's a little odd actually being able to identify someone who made my mind even dirtier.