Military Man
There are a few thing I know about military men.

1. Military men are the only men who know how to take a woman's arm properly. This is, of course, part of the training. They understand how to offer a strong arm without pulling a girl around. They also offer enough resistance, no noodle arming.

2. They are great in bed. This one I have more trouble explaining. I can only assume that it has to do with discipline, self control, and delayed gratification all three qualities be sorely lacking in most other areas of American culture. I think also, more than perhaps other men I've met, like me they like a challenge, a real challenge, and that goes for the bedroom too. Someone who can really engage you. This is much harder to find. Particularly for me.

The bar I was in last night I was talking with this character, let's call him, Sweet Cheeks. Sweet Cheeks was chatting me up by the pool table. He's a regular and last week attempted to rescue me from two men who were getting ugly about who was worthy of my attentions when the answer was patently neither. I simply walked home thus removing the argument.

He started by talking about the incident and assuring me that should I ever need him to just whistle. Of course, the day I let any man know I need help is the day I cut out my own tongue, but still nice invite. And somehow this segued way from how men behave in the bar to how I behave in the bar.

"I see it here all the time. You know men walking up to some girl in here, trying their best. trying to make something happen and of course from where I am sitting, sitting and watching as I usually do I can tell them it's never going to work. Some have a harder time accepting that than others. You, though, you're surprising. I've watched you. You go through the same things as most of my other female friends, fending off men. But this daintiness of yours, it's just an act. But you;re also educated and well read-not just a pretty girl. That's unusual in the bars around here. To find a girl like you. You're a real pleasure to watch because you not predictable."

There are only two things about me that are sure: I am not what you expect, and I am a pleasure to watch.

"When was the first time surrendered completely? Gave up control of yourself entirely?"

So this is where the conversation is going. Yet another thing he won't expect.

"I've always been far too trusting a person so I can't tell you that. I grew up without much control and certainly learned very early on that sometimes to hold on to what little control you have is not to save strength for a later fight in which you had some hope.It would be easier for me to tell you the first time I completely took control."

He tells me the story of how he came into The Lifestyle-an ex-girlfriend, a whip, a mask, some restraints. It's an old story, but he tells it again.

He turns on me again. "What is it you want?"

I can't answer the question. In my fluster, I start to talk about kissing. Which isn't entirely a deceptive move. I love kissing. I'm curious about what he would taste like-jameson's and ice? smoky leather and cigarettes? Some other girl's lipstick? A combination of all them with a trace of mouthwash?

We talk about what it is about kissing-the art of it-pressure and anticipation, but it's not until later that I realize what it is I really want, what I'm waiting for him to do. To stand up to me. If this daintiness is just an act, then he should know that what I am looking for is a man who can give me a fair fight. To resist me. To grab my wrist and twist it around my back so that I am so close to him he can smell all the different fragrances of me-my shampoo, my moisturizer, my perfume, my lipstick, my sweat. He should be close enough to almost taste the scent of me. Twist my arm and hold me there, when I begin to struggle, until I meet his eye and we look at each other. And then let me go because we both know that he can resist me. He can kiss me, could have, but didn't. Not from lack of desire, but from an understanding of what's fun is the game. Pushing each other's limits, seeing who wins what round how, it's strategy and planning and power. It's the challenge.

Sex, as he says, is simple. This is not always true, but it certainly is easier than the game. Lots of time I kid myself that what I want is the pleasure of surrender or the enjoyment of taking control of another. Men are easy to manipulate through desire, something I learned in college. I would start kissing them and I could just feel it, when the animal side took over. And once that animal side took over, as as I thought that was what I wanted then they were under my power and generally once that happened the fun was gone. It was far too simple with most of them and therefore not worth my time. I would throw them away quickly looking down on them as weak.

"This," he says, "Verbal foreplay if you will, is far more rare. More difficult."

"What is that you want?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"Yes, I have."

Of course no I haven't nor would most call me on it. Most men, by now, wouldn't even care. They would be calculating how soon they could blindfold me and tie me to the bed.

We look at each other for a moment. He goes out to have cigarette with a friend.

While I sit, a former army man comes up to me. Cocky and smiling. An easy mark. Sweetcheeks vanishes later without saying goodbye. The military man, at the end of the night, walks me home. He kisses me with surprising ability on my doorstep. Slow and sensual. Not desperate. Not insistent with late night desire and liquor, but soft. He's enjoying the moment, not surrendering to it.

What I wanted right?

I know next what will happen-the series of required reasons I should let him in, nothing will happen, he promises-I'll resist, then relent-I'll invite him in-he won't even bother to sit on the couch before he's pushing me into the bed, pulling off clothes. I"ll start to resist, the pleasure, and the rush, and the power of it will overwhelm. And...

But I've done this already. So many nights. It will be enjoyable in the moment and then tomorrow I'll find myself disappointed on so many levels, partially with the relative ease and predictability of the entire evening. The bruises will last longer than any pleasure I might sustain.

He pulls back from that deep kiss. He asks for my number, which I give. He smiles. That insanely wide smile. He kisses me again and tells me to have a good night.

I could be disappointed I suppose, but I smile. He understand the game as well. Better to make me wait.

It'll be good for him too. Give him time to think about it.

300 Dollars and One Week to Go
I know, you're getting sick of it by now, but I am only 300 dollars away from my thousand dollar goal. But I have only 8 days left to raise the money. And I'm honest here, I am running out of people to harass. So thank you to all the people who have already given money, and thank you to all the bloggers who put up posts about this on their blog. After the thon don't worry you shall get proper thank yous as well as as goodie bags. Because nothing says thank you like sugar-y goodness.

But I still need your help. We are getting down to the wire. If you know anyone who can give, please send them the links to the previous posts. And all you bloggers out there with blogger pals, if you can get them to post that would be AWESOME. If you want, I can even forward you my donation pitch email so all you have to do is forward it. We're so close people. So close.

And are you ready for Freaky France Friday? As promised I have a sex post for tomorrow, but that's just a taste of what's to come. That is if all of you are good boys and girls and help me raise that money. You aren't going to get the super sweet and sexy end of the Paris diaries until I reach my 1000 goal. So help me, to help you.

The Inevitable Truth About My Cat's Ass
I was looking for a book last night. I knew I had taken it off the shelf so I could prep for class today, yet five minutes later when my tea was ready I couldn't find it. Not on the coffee table, not by the computer, not on the bedside table, not on the kitchen table, not on the couch. Sure enough it was under my cat's ass. Inevitably when I need something, the remote, a book, the Wall Street Journal, my keys, it is under my cat's ass. Now why is it she can't do something useful like park her tuchass on a single straight male millionaire with a weakness for short buxom chicks?

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