Amanly

What a funny word. Doesn't quite look right, does it? Almost looks like a name, but alas, it is intentional. I'm about to embark on what i hope will be a therapeutic bloodletting, so please bear with me.

I'm not a man. At least, not based on the examples that i encounter on a daily basis. I'm something that approximates a man, edging towards one, but i fall quite short of the standard. I'm a fresh-faced, bright eyed man-child. Were those of you who read me on a semi-regular basis to meet me, you would find it hard to believe that the gender i choose for sexual copulation is that of the female. I've got fine features. I'm not demonstrably tall (in fact, without knowing why, i come off as a "small individual", even though i'm an average height for an adult man) and i'm athletically slim. I've an incredibly youthful appearance and my gesticulations tend to be passionate, overdone and loud - all of these accumulated traits have branded me with a character sketch, to those i encounter, as one who is a latent homosexual. Sadly, it would be easier in some respects if i were gay, because at least i might find myself beginning to fit into some well-defined world with rules and expectations.

Alas, that is not the case. I love girls. Adore them. Obsess, ache, and even starve for them. But as far as mimicking the behavior of my fellow man, that is where we depart.



***DISCLAIMER ALERT - WHAT FOLLOWS IS AN EXPOSURE OF THE WAYS MEN ACTUALLY BEHAVE. LEAVE THESE PAGES NOW IF YOU CARE NOT TO LEARN A TRUE SIDE OF MEN***



Every regular man i've met, and have spent a reasonable amount of time around, wants to stick his cock into every single "attractive" female he encounters. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. They evaluate complete female strangers based on which "hole" they'd likely use, and what measures they would need to install in order to conceal the unattractive features that might make their conquest less enjoyable. I cannot stress how widespread and prevalent this attitude towards women is. Men who catcall, men who oggle, men who undress you in the five seconds it takes for you to walk by them - they all want to hump every single one of you.

And, this completely escapes and baffles me.

As a man, i get to witness the average male's true and honest behavior. But, rather than paint this behavior as abhorrent, i'd prefer to focus more on the difference it represents to my own. As far as i can remember, i've never seen another, unacquainted woman and want to take her to my/her bed (or behind the counter) - or even for that matter, women i know. Now, before this descends into the easy "Deity is a gentleman and a polite individual" track, i'd like to say that i'm not exactly sure why i don't have this normal reaction. I've been in situations where a typically benign, business meeting suddenly turns into an evaluation of the top 5 most attractive girls in the office, and who would each most likely fuck. I witness these assessments with a certain degree of awe, because these men are speaking in tongues in which i am not fluent. When the prattle makes its way around, and it's my turn to select which female officemate i'd like to put over the desk, i might as well be trying to explain to a French librarian what Danish cookbook i'm trying to locate - all the while speaking Japanese.

Like i said, this isn't a dissertation on how other men suck and Deity is the bestest of them all. Instead, it's a self-evaluation in the hopes of understanding what i'm lacking, and what they have versus what i don't got. I've discussed this with a few people, and most of them say that the majority of men learn this behavior - to mark any and all females as potential receptacles for their seed. That some imperative individual in their development explained to them that women - all women - are to be evaluated for their ability to get you off. But, honestly, i don't buy it. Surveying the cavalcade of men in my life who act in this fashion, i see that many of them did not grow up with a dedicated male role model (i.e dad was absent, uncles insufficient, etc.), which i think rules out cultural implications into this male norm. Therefore, with all the (unscientifically-derived) data facing me, i'm prepared to make a diagnosis:

- I'm severely lacking in some serious levels of testosterone that other men just get.

If this were true (which i'm sad to admit, it's likely not - this mystery will continue to go unsolved), simply ingesting a handful of supplements would set me on the right track to female objectification.

Wait a minute! Doesn't Deity already partake in an assortment of female objectification? Why, good man, you are correct. That objectification, reducing an intelligent, articulate woman into nothing but a vessel is quite different.

Or is it?

I ask this a bit rhetorically, but also a touch pejoratively. These behaviors my fellow men demonstrate cannot be seen as negative when you allow yourself to believe they are acting purely on instinct. And remember, they are only acting verbally, among other men. Most are not carrying out these behaviors they present as their desires.

I too have instincts or vices that do not appear socially acceptable. I have a skill for fabricating the truth - or to the layman - lying. From a very young age i realized that i could present someone with a false fact or tale quickly and believably. More importantly, i had no reservations pulling this off. No remorse. Whereas most people feel deeply guilty after doing this.

I have an innate talent for stealing. Also, from an early age, i realized i'm very good with my hands, and can conceal an object in them incredibly well. I also have strong observational skills, so i can examine my surroundings, determine if anyone is watching, and carefully make my way from somewhere with my loot even in plain sight.

Now, neither of these are all that attractive traits, and i'd be in an awful lot of trouble if i acted on them regularly. However, i have a way to dampen their impact on my daily behavior. I also didn't learn these behaviors. They came naturally to me. They are, for all intents and purposes, instincts. And just like the average male's instinct to mentally turn every pretty girl into a sex slave, they too aren't criminals for solely thinking this way.

I simply can't think like most men. And this fact makes living in a world as a man incredibly taxing and alienating from time to time. Because, let's face it, men suck, but thank goodness, so do women.

This mask

There is this mask.

This mask.

This one.

This mask that i put on her.

And she disappears.

Disappears.

Completely.

I produce it out of our toy chest, and she accepts its application.

It is baby pink - because i know what effect that color has on her.

I relish the slow closing of the long zipper, sealing her inside.

I don't need to do anything. Suddenly, Barbie emerges.

My dolly. My fucktoy. My slutty lil thing cums out.

I cannot express how thrilled i am with her emergence. It not only fulfills me. It imprints on me a permanent impression of joy, peace and intense pleasure.

I feel its influence. I feel its strength. I feel its power.

And.

I.

Succumb.

#ThereislittlemuchIcandotostopmyselffromthinkingaboutthispinklatexrubberhood#

Context

This goes without saying seeing as where it is being said, however, this whole game of SM goes nowhere without context.

It's not that you want someone to pull your hair, just out of the blue. That would be rather painful, and incredibly infuriating. You do not walk the streets hoping some complete stranger would yank on your submissive/masochistic chain (already!). Nor do you wish that random strangers would call you slut as you passed by. There must exist a framework through which you are open to these activities, otherwise, these scary, edgy activities we partake in would really be scary. This is my concern with all of the SM-laced torture porn you see in movies like Saw and Hostel. It has the potential to normalize acting without that context, taking steps to treat someone in these brutal ways without establishing that critical framework. And that is the really scary thing.

With the advent of free or pirated porn on the Internet significantly increasing the amount of sexual material consumed, there are many folks who are concerned with how the female porn star look seems to creep ever more and more into normal society. This is certainly supported by the media outlets that do nothing but cover the myopic obsession female "celebrities" have with going under the knife. I have equal concerns as i browse through tumblr and i encounter captions that seem to indicate every girl in every situation should be viewed as a "slut" "whore" or "slave". I might be a bit too alarming in this paragraph, but do believe it is worth mentioning. It takes a very specific, carefully crafted environment for those sort of terms to have an erotic effect on me, and most photos i see in tumblr do not achieve it.

But just as i have concerns about what these materials might say about any girl who would be interested in assuming the role of a submissive bottom, i'm equally concerned about what it seems to say about the dominant Top. If we took our cue from the torture porn movies, sadistic Tops are mentally unstable. We have some serious bone to pick with young women, and our lust for revenge is greater than our lust for our "victim".

I do not seek to spank every bottom that i encounter. I do not hanker to wrap my hands in every girl's hair and pull them to their knees. I do not wish to impose my dress code and manner of behavior on the entirety of femalehood. That would be psychopathic.

The summarizing point of all this is to say both me and my girl worked our asses off to design, establish and construct this context that allows us to operate the way we do. I don't want that diminished by someone who minimizes its importance because they don't understand, but more aptly, i don't want to see it made extinct.

Ample

I can't help it. Provide me with an ass, and i'll bite it. Until it hurts. Until it REALLY hurts. Until you yell at me. Until you can't stop jerking your backside away from my mouth, and moan out of protest.

Moan. Complain. Protest. Dig in your heels. God...that's what i want to hear. I was just spending the waking moments of our morning satisfying my tactile desire to chomp and bite, but then you insist on whimpering. Do you not know what that does to me?

Moan. Whimper. Appeal to my decency. My humanity. You will soon see how i respond to such protestations. You will soon feel how rigid your verbal rejections of my behavior enlivens my groin. This erection, you cannot blame me. This is your fault. I was just biting. I was just nibbling and nuzzling. You chose to paint the air with your withering victimhood. You chose to offer your cries, your rejections.

Turning your naked ass away will not accomplish what you think it will. I will hold you firmer. I will pin you down. And then, i will bite again. I will chew your girly flesh, grind it between my teeth. Suck on it. Pull it into my mouth. Kicking your feet into the mattress will only rile me up. Thrashing will only drive the urge deeper.

The urge to pull you inside of me. The urge to force myself all over you. The urge to make this - us - one, by coercive penetration of your cries, your ears, your mouth, your holes.

It's morning. Peaceful. Early. We've got ample amounts of time. And we've only just started.

Spank me, already!

This is a lesson in "be careful what you ask for."

My recent birthday had passed, and still no commemorative spankings. First a day or two, and then some more. We were creeping up on almost a week gone by, and not even something as much as a swat had materialized. My girl, apparently flummoxed (but not physically, as we've established) came to me.

"Why haven't we done your birthday spankings yet?"

"We haven't? Are you sure?"

"Stop...seriously, when are we going to attend to them?"

"Sounds like someone is rather wound up with excitement."

"No, not really. I'd just rather get them over with."

To the attending audience, this is NOT the tone in which you want to leave your dominant when it comes to presenting your perception of a celebratory ritual. You want your Top to believe you are excited, enthralled, rapt with enthusiasm. You do NOT want him to hear you approach the upcoming spectacle with a detached "get on with it" attitude. That sounds diffused, lacking emotion. It's likely he'll do something to reinvigorate the bottom. And that is precisely what i did.

A few days after her initial cross-examinating questions, i stationed myself into the bedroom and laid out several implements. I called her into the bedroom (a routine that hasn't, perhaps surprisingly, grown tiresome). Spread across the bed was a hairbrush, a rattan cane, and the floor hockey stick from my youth.

"You get to eliminate one of these. The other two will administer my birthday spankings."

Predictably (pssst...the game is and has always been rigged), she eliminated the hockey stick. This didn't surprise me. I knew how much she hated that device. And frankly, i relished the notion of even presenting it as a possible tool for her to choose to slap the back of her prone ass. However, tactically, she chose to endure the flat wooden hairbrush, and the thin wisp of the rattan cane.

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, i present to you the evidence that shows the defendant was fully aware of how many strokes were to be administered across her backside. She knew that i had progressed another year, and that this number which was to be articulated in blows upon her ass was a number much higher than her weekly maintenance spankings. Yet, she still chose two implements that would impart upon her flesh the most damage, and subsequent corporal markings. I ask you, the gallant jury, if she knew what the outcome would be, why would she choose the hair brush and the cane?

Here's where the scenario gets an added injection of predicament. I had recently purchased for her a delectable penis-shaped gag. Knowing her proclivity for oral release, i thought it prudent and helpful that her mouth get outfitted with this newest obstruction. Perceptibly beneficial for her, she would have something to channel the energy she incurs when i rain blows upon her ass, and benefiting me, i would be able to think about her mouth stuffed with rigid, rubber cock while i thrashed her. The defendant and the prosecutor both win. One thing about this new penis gag is that it wasn't the most expensive, and thus not the best designed gag, so in order to keep it firmly set in her mouth, removing the ability for her to spit the gag out (which she loves doing just to get my grit). To compensate for its design flaw, i had to latch it to the tightest possible belt hole. I didn't expect her to try to use her hands to undo, but just to be safe, i threaded one of her brass padlocks we use on her collar through the accompanying locking ring, securing it firm and deep into her mouth (when it was finally removed, a trail of teethmarks had been cut into it by how tightly she bit into it for relief).

What followed has been told many times on this site (if we're going by "spanking" as a label, it has been applied 36 times), so you'll forgive me if i attempt to not avoid redundancy.

More importantly, actually, is not what happened during the spankings. Although, they were brutal, and there was at one point where the reddened flesh of her backside did start to bleed a tiny amount, what is more important is the beautiful bruising that blossomed across her cheeks.

If i had to pick a favorite part of my birthday spankings, the application of them would definitely be up there, but wouldn't win the top accolade. That honor would fall upon the markings and the evolution they make over time. My girl takes a great deal of pride in the physical evidence of what she endured, and being a former cutter, she gains peace from watching how her body heals itself. To me, as i get to see clear, vivid and bold stripes morph into a flowing cloud of dark, violet coloration, ringed with a hue of amber shading, i'm touched by the meaningfulness of this symbol. This is our union, our intimacy. Our love and trust gets set with a vivid stroke, and over time, as we pass through life, in and out of physical contact, that love and trust transforms. This spot where i've touched her with a calculated firmness at first expressed a flash sensation, but over time, it becomes merely tender - this too represents our love and intimacy. We are very tender towards eachother, despite what it may sound like through the writing on this black background. We have some very flashy, kinky and outrageous moments, but the baseline of our relationship and our dynamic is our mutual tenderness.

By now, you might be wondering "Uhm, where's the part where Deity demonstrates how this is an example of being careful what you wish for?". Yes. Sorry about that. I'll get right on it.

It just so happens that three days after the administration of the birthday spankings, my girl had a burlesque gig. Coincidentally, the bruising following such a beating reaches its peak exactly three days after. On the day of her gig, she came to me in the morning, and asked if i'd take a look at her ass. Members of the jury, you don't need to ask me to do that, i do it all of the time - but i digress...

"Looks great, darlin. Those are coming along nicely."

"That's not why i wanted you to look."

"Then why did you, sugarpuss?"

"Because i'm dancing tonight, and there's no way i can cover this up!"

"But don't you have that body makeup stuff? That should do the trick."

She looked at me for a moment, stunned by my complete lack of concern at her position. Then stomped off. The day passed, and the evening arrived. We transported her gear to the bar where she was performing. I kissed her and wished her good luck, then found a seat inside the small auditorium, in order to watch the show.

When it finally came time for her performance, i was very excited because she had been working very hard on this number, and had made an assortment of adjustments to it that i think the audience was going to go crazy for. She looked gorgeous, and her stripping and choreography did in fact get the crowd going. All the hooting and hollering was exciting. The music reached the point where she pulled off one of her naughtiest reveals - basically, she turns her back to the audience, and with her feather fans, slowly flutters them up to reveal her beautiful, alabaster backside.

The audience went mad.

I, however, had a very different and unexpected reaction. She was absolutely correct, the body makeup didn't do the trick, and staring me right in the eyes were the two sizable, oval bruises stretched across her buttocks. And for some reason, i turned red. I can't really explain why. No one in the audience necessarily knew i was her man, and it isn't certain they connected the contusions with any brutal act. Nonetheless, i felt a twinge of guilt.

After the show, i congratulated her on her wonderful performance, and asked why she didn't use the body makeup.

"I DID use it. I applied three coats!"

Perhaps that's the amount i should've applied to my own previously reddened cheeks.

Alone again, naturally

I wouldn't call it a malaise. Nor would i categorize it as a depression. More accurately, it could be labeled a disconnection. I had allowed myself to step away from a hard-earned, annual tradition of complete self-involvement, only to fool myself to accept normal conventions as the way to connect and stay in contact with the world.

Some highfalutin' language that signifies nothing? Understood. Essentially what i'm trying to offer you, the reader, is that recently i endured an annual, somewhat taxing episode, but one that shouldn't ultimately have been so taxing.

I celebrated a birthday.

I turned another year older. I aged. I advanced my years on this rock. And before any of you think that it is the superficial click on the aging odometer that troubles me, i assure you the advancing years excites me. I look forward to the days i'm 80 and i have decades of experience and knowledge under my belt that i can wield, flaunt and offer to others. My conflict with the occasion of my birthday is an existential one that has been trotted out on these pages before.

I'm rabidly anti-materialistic. I'm so opposed to rampant, errant consumption just for the sole reason that one in the affluent Western world can, that sometimes i experience heavily crippling periods when the invitation/encouragement to massively inhale material goods falls specifically and festively on my chest. Such is the case with my birthday.

On this day, everyone conventionally wishes that you get spoiled on your happy, unique, special day (aka. rained upon by material excess) and that all your dreams and wishes are fulfilled (aka. you get every meaningless trinket you've been coveting over the last six months). These folks are not to blame, for in the Western world, this is how they've been taught to celebrate their birthdays from the earliest stages of their life. As fortunate inhabitants of the affluent hemispheres, we grow accustomed to having lavish parties tossed in commemoration of us having made it from the harrowing age of six to the exacting age of seven. During these parties, we are the center of attention, and not just the foci, but in fact the target of numerous piles of toys and presents as if to say "This is your reward - these plastic tchotkes - for enduring that difficult (yet sheltered) life of your childhood."

At a very early age, i realized that this mode of celebration didn't fit me at all. In fact, my entire relationship with my birthday caused a great deal of discombobulation with my social compatriots. As each year passed, i found myself wanting to conceal the actual day i was born from those i knew. I took great care in obscuring the date when it came up in conversation, because i truly didn't want the prescribed manner that one celebrates the day of their birth applied to mine. I wanted to be left alone. I didn't want to be spoiled, and i didn't want a bunch of semi-sincere well wishers patsying me with their aplomb.

What i wanted was to be alone. Here is the root of my life's philosophy. We ARE alone. All of us. This is not meant in a way to shock and stir the senses. It is merely my attempt to label the reality we all live. Being alone is neither good nor bad. It just...is. No matter how close i feel to anyone - my girl, my dearest friends, my family - my experiences and how i perceive the world is solely mine. I cannot know what an apple tastes like to you as you crunch your teeth into the chunky, juicy flesh, nor can you ever know how that same apple tastes like to me. All of this is my own provenance.

I realized this in my college years, and i was able to self-prescribe the proper medication to handle my birthdays: for 24 hours, i would vanish. I would disappear. Be nowhere near a phone, or a computer. I would only be with myself. The first year i followed through with this, i got on a bus, whose destination i didn't know, and 16 hours later found myself in another state with no idea how i'd get back. The next year, i spent the entire day in a bathtub in one of those pay-by-the-hour motels, occasionally adding hot water to the mix. The following year - easily my favorite - i walked 35 miles along a two lane country highway. There is nothing like being on a darkened road at 3AM, just walking, by yourself. I can still vividly remember my encounter with the amazing sensation of mist sizzling on the high-tension power lines overhead, stopping to look up at this sight, buzzed from the abstract reality of it all.

Somehow, in recent years, i got away from this practice. It's largely my girl's fault. She was the first person i'd ever met who i actually didn't mind spending time with on my birthday. The more of them we celebrated together, the further i moved away from this model of pure isolation. Unfortunately, this year it caught up with me. My psyche had grown thirsty, and needed severe re-hydration. Even the promise of our traditional administration of a number of strokes* across my girl's backside to correspond with the age i turned that year wasn't enough to keep at bay those severe anti-materialistic demons. Thankfully, i remembered how to get back to that place where it was just me, by myself, isolated, on my birthday.

I'm not normal, i understand that. Who has such a convoluted, existential struggle about something as simple as one's birthday? It's just one day out of the year, just go get some cake, blow out the candles, and open your presents. It doesn't need to be so difficult. I understand this perspective, and i have faced many perplexing questions all around the theme of "Why do you have to be so weird?", followed by my favorite "Why do you have to take things so seriously?".

The answer to both questions is the same: because that is who i am.


*Stay tuned for my post where i go into more details about that spanking my girl endured, and the unforeseen consequences...

Sustenance

As i layered over her cellophane-wrapped fists with black duct tape, i contemplated how much of a sadistic jerk i fancied being that night.

We'd just spent a wonderful weekend day together in the city, exploring the freshly blossoming public gardens on a pristine spring afternoon. Once we arrived home from our outing, she nestled herself onto our couch in hopes of winding down, aided by her book and a curled up feline. I attended to some incomplete matters in my bureau, fully aware of what i would find back on the couch in 20 minutes time. I looked in on her, as i moved my activity to the kitchen, preparing to start the evening's repas. There she was, collapsed into a sleeping ball of beauty, her pretty mouth pursed partially open. Her breath hummed into the solemn air, its peaceful buzz reaching my ears. But alas, were it seeking some noble fraternity with my thoughts, it would feel betrayed. Instead, it would've found a twisted, malevolent factory, rapidly churning out the perverted designs i would later use to torment this slumbering angel.

Accomplishing what i needed to in the kitchen and setting the slow simmer into motion, i retreated to the bedroom and began to lay out the numerous apparatuses that i would employ. Now, there may be some of you out there who envision the delicate slumber i was about to interrupt and think my behavior selfish - and you wouldn't be wrong to think that. The part that's even more wicked is that i didn't care. By the time i'd placed the last item on the bed, my mind buzzed with electricity and that familiar, rich flavor flooded in my mouth.

"Sweetheart...it's time to wake up."

"Mmmmm...wha...what?"

"Come with me back into the bedroom."

There are those who have a parent that gave them a look when they were a child wherein they could immediately identify what was coming next. Over the years of our relationship, my girl has learned that when i summon her to the bedroom, she's not entering the chamber where she sleeps in the evening, but instead the dungeon i've constructed.

I grabbed her tiny, delicate hands and fashioned them into tight balls. I took her left hand and wound several layers of tight cellophane around it, encapsulating her digits. I then tore off long strips of black duct tape, smoothing each over her clubbed mitt, making sure no plastic wrap showed through. I asked her to try to wiggle out of it, but she confirmed what i already knew - trapped. I repeated the same procedure with her right hand, and then retrieved the patent leather hood and neck corset from its stand. I snickered to myself as i loosened the hood's laces, pondering the next 60 minutes. After properly positioning the hood and hitching up the neck corset, i said goodbye to my girl, then latched the matching blindfold over the now completed toy's head.

I took some time to enjoy the spectacle of my fucktoy. This doll who sat before me, naked, speechless, shiny black head concealing all of her features, with matching shiny immobilized hands was no longer the sleeping beauty who'd just ten minutes before been resting on the couch. This was Barbie. And Barbie needed shoes.

"Stick out Barbie's feet."

I slid the latest addition to Barbie's wardrobe onto her pointed legs, gliding the zipper to the top. My goodness, the shininess of these boots still managed to amaze me. I positioned my dolly onto the bed, on her belly, legs spread open. I latched a locking leather cuff around each of the doll's wrists, and then fastened these up onto the headboard. I grabbed the Hitachi and laid it in a supine position in between the fucktoy's legs. I placed the dormant head right against Barbie's cuntlips so that she would know it sat right there.

"Okay. Now be a good little toy and keep those legs spread. I'll be back in a bit."

Barbie grunted, indicating frustration that the magic wand wasn't animated before i departed. I scooted off to the kitchen, checking in on the meal. Everything was as i expected. After about ten minutes of additional prep work, i returned to the bedroom.

Greeting me, like a good little toy, was Barbie's glistening pussycunt, aimed upwards in the air. I grabbed the wand and turned it on, and pressed it to my dolly's naked thigh.

"Is this where Barbie wants this?"

"MMMMmmmmppph!"

"Oh? Barbie wants it higher?"

"MMMmmmmmmmmmmmmm-hmmmmmmmm."

I brought the gyrating knob within millimeters of the swollen cuntlips, holding it right there.

"Does Barbie want to feel the wand?"

"MMMMMMMM! MMMMMMM!"

"Beg, Barbie, beg."

"Mmmmmm-mmmm-mmmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!"

I pressed the wand against the fucktoy's lips, and immediately Barbie began to feverishly grind against the implement. I held it securely in place, as the dolly's hips thrashed against the white, silicon head. Four, maybe six minutes of this, i could begin to see the glowing crimson color of an oncoming orgasm building in the toy's cunt flesh.

"Does Barbie want me to turn the wand to high?"

"mmmmmmmmmmmMMMMmmmmmmmm..." This was a deeper sound, scraping off whatever intonation the toy found on its vocal chords.

I responded by deepening my own voice, and when i spoke, i could feel the devilish grin painted all over my mouth.

"Beg. Beg, Barbie. Show me how badly the toy wants more."

Barbie thrashed on the bed, trying to shove as much of the toy's pussycunt onto the vibrating wand.

"Mmmmmmmm-MMM-MMM-MMM-MMM!!!!"

I easily interpreted this as wanting more and flipped the switch to 'high'. Immediately, hums poured out of Barbie, constantly flooding the room with sexual purrs. In my head, i counted downward from fifteen, and when i reached zero, i flipped the wand off.

"gggghhhhhhhggghghh!!!ggghh!!!"

Apparently, the fucktoy didn't approve of this. Good thing Barbie was in no position to decide.

"I've got to check in on dinner. Be a good toy, and keep those legs spread."

Barbie pleaded with me. The dolly wiggled its perky little ass in the air, drawing an illustration of where i should re-apply the fun stick that had just moments before been alive. I wasn't persuaded.

The food by now filled the air of our apartment with such robust flavors and perfumes. Stirring the pot, i concluded that we only had a dozen or so minutes before it was completed. I took out the dining china and the corresponding stemware. Meticulously, i set the table, making sure each dish and fork sat the exact distance from each other. I lit the candles for the meal, and corked the wine. I stopped and gave real thought to any details i might've missed.

Nothing. Nothing it seems.

Barbie, i thought, must be famished.