Recently, I received the following e-mail:
I’m Ava. I stumbled across your blog a few weeks ago and have not been able to stop thinking about it since.
I’m a bratty submissive who loves anal and lives in [a city far from you], so I don’t know how narrowly I fit the description of your desires (I’ve read enough to have a sense), but I figured it was worth reaching out if for no other reason than to tell you how much I adore what you’ve created here.
She attached a fetching, mysterious photo of two very pretty lips, just slightly separated, in the barest hint of a smile. The lips are glossy, pink, and sit amidst astonishingly smooth skin that suggests, but doesn’t reveal, dizzyingly high cheekbones. Brunette hair, wavy, lustrous – not unkempt, but also not rigidly controlled – loosely surrounds the bottom hair of the (olive?) skin.
The top of the photo cuts off her face just below her nose, the rightward tilt of her face revealing just a bit more of her right cheek than of her left. The bottom of the photo, meanwhile, extends just below what appear to be B-cup breasts, covered by a dark blue or black strappy scoop-neck top. Maybe her left nipple is pierced? I can’t quite tell.
The photo is… perfect. Like, almost too perfect. I wondered if it wasn’t found somewhere on the interwebs and repurposed for this message. A cursory Google search for the image revealed nothing.
The e-mail intrigued me. Who is this person who implies she’s read a not-insignificant portion of my blog (“I adore what you’ve created here”) and, that what she’s read resonates for her (“… have not been able to stop thinking about it”)? And how does she relate to (has she read) what I’ve written about bratty submissives? About anal sex (virtually nothing, because it’s just not a big part of my landscape of desire or behavior)? Does she care?
I responded, nearly immediately:
Well hello, Ava.
Thank you so much for the lovely photo, and the lovely words.
You’re certainly correct that “bratty submissive” and “anal” are not two things I’ve written about loving on my blog. But I’m not one to look a gift ass in the mouth(?). Or a gift mouth in the ass(?). I’m not sure what the right construction is. Suffice it to say, if you adore what I’ve created, that, more than anything, is highly predictive of the possibility we might like one another, we might get along, we might have fun together.
I want to know more about you. How did you find my blog? What is it you adore, given that you don’t find a lot of anal sex or dominance of bratty subs on it? And, how is it that I get to see more of you? (For starters, I’m attaching my voice to this message, as I want to hear your voice, and I’m disinclined to ask for much that I’m not willing to provide.)
I look forward to hearing (from) you.
And, as promised in my words, I attached a short audio file.
We quickly launched an e-mail back and forth, in which it seemed there was something very promising about Anal Ava – in spite of our seemingly irreconcilable tastes. Among other things, she entrusted me with her real name.
And then… she disappeared. Two days went by with nary a word. “Was it something I said?” I messaged her.
And an hour later, she responded. “No, sorry, just a particularly hellish week!”
We resumed. She sent me an incredibly hot, mysterious shot of her body in a pretty blue dress. She asked me why I had left Charlotte in the hotel at 1 or 2 in the morning, what it was about my life that made that the course of action I chose.
We chatted some more. She sent me two more delicious photos of her. (I had promised that I might write about her once she’d sent eight.) I heard her voice. I saw her face. We switched to text, because apparently Apple’s e-mail program only allows photos to be sent inline – which doesn’t work so good when the photos are actually good.
I asked to have her next solo orgasm. She told me that would be a while – she had just had an orgasm, and she had a date that afternoon with one of her steady guys. I asked about the guy, about the sex, and asked to see what she wore to her date. She didn’t respond to this. And, a day later, when I reminded her that I’d asked to see this, she said that I previously had seen her in the dress she wore, so, I hadn’t missed anything.
“Incorrect,” I wrote. “I missed you doing as I asked. I missed seeing your pretty body. I missed knowing that you were thinking of me, that it mattered to you to give me what I ask.”
She said, “Ok I follow. Noted.” Anal Ava is laconic where I am loquacious. She’s capable of loquacious, when she wants to be. (Usually by e-mail. Not by text.) But she’s managing her interactions with me, keeping me at a bit of a distance.
Anal Ava was clear from the start that her submissiveness is bratty, but I don’t think this, actually, is what she meant. She describes her brattiness as “playful” and “at least mildly sexual.” An affirmative presence in interactions, rather than a negative absence. There have been hints of this. A double entendre here (when we were discussing her cat (“stunning, but annoying when I don’t play with her enough,” she wrote at a moment when I had asked her not to come), or a little chide for my not having written (“Tried to get in the mood but there’s no new content! Tsk tsk”) there.
My experience is that her submissiveness is… sporadic. In a way that feels familiar, Anal Ava wants to send me what she wants when she wants to send it. “I invite you to have an orgasm tonight. At my behest… But only if you show me what you’re wearing,” I wrote. This was a repeat of a previous request to which she had not responded.
“I’ll snap a pic when I get home in my pjs. Aka a shirt and panties.”
“Because you don’t want to give me what I’m asking for? Or because you think I’ll enjoy that better than what I’m asking for?”
“What I’m wearing now isn’t as sexy.”
I know myself well. I know my responses to women well. I find Anal Ava compelling, to be sure: what’s not to like about a beautiful, smart, thoughtful, sexual woman who’s into my writing, who’s into me? But I also can see at this early stage that if we are to click well, something’s gotta change. Either my expectations or her behavior. Or, I suppose, both.
This exchange led to my sending her links to various of my previous posts that might help her understand how I relate to the responses she gives to my requests. To which she responded with three incredibly hot shots of her cunt, and ass, in her panties. In one of which, her thighs are clamped shut. And in another of which, compliantly, she has opened them for me.
She’s read enough of my blog that she might well understand much of this, how it is that my mind works. She’s read enough to know that when I have evidence that a woman isn’t thinking of me, that interacts with my pathology such that – well, such that I don’t feel safe. And when I don’t feel safe, my cock shrivels.
Conversely, she’s read enough to know that when a woman shows me that she is thinking of me, that she prioritizes making sure that I know that, that I get what I want – even if what’s available is simply the information that I can’t yet get what I want, but that she’s still thinking of me – well, that makes me feel comfortable, and makes my cock stiffen.
Yes, she has read enough to know all that.
But…. All that is a bit… foreign to her. I have the sense that Anal Ava is accustomed to a much more free-flowing exchange of words and images, one in which the point is what’s depicted, what’s conveyed, rather than the flow of power and intent. Ironic, given how she described the appeal of anal sex to her: “My ass is the hardest to give, so it feels especially good to give it (and/or have it taken). It’s painful but then unimaginably pleasurable — the mix of the two sensations is intoxicating.”
She imagines that the way she can make my cock hard is with her pretty pussy splayed out before me. And of course, she’s not entirely wrong. She’s blessed with preternatural good looks, and surely has the daily experience of turning heads and attracting attention.
But the truth is… I’m not those other guys. While I do like me some beauty, the beauty itself just isn’t where the juice is for me. The juice – the excitement, the thrill – is not in the fact of her having a perfectly round ass, or crystal clear skin. The thrill for me lies in her perfect delivery of my articulated desires, in her complying with – yes, submitting to – my wishes, [even] at the expense of her wishes, her expectations. (Cf. anal sex.)
She tells me she’s finding things with me a bit stressful. Which I totally understand. Time will tell if we can bridge the gap. My experience has been that, for a certain type of woman, my dominance is the opposite of stressful: she finds it relaxing not to have to think, not to have to guess. This type of woman and I click perfectly.
But other women do find me stressful. I ask for “x” and they worry that what they give me might fall short of my hopes and expectations. Incidentally, this never is true of anyone who simply reads my words and responds honestly and truthfully and respectfully and reasonably promptly with something that approximates what I’ve asked for.
Or, they are distracted by their own notions of what I might want but haven’t said, what they think I should want, or what others have wanted from them in the past. Or by their own self-consciousness. Or all that.
As time marches forward we shall see: do I relax my expectations and requirements? Do I say, “Oh! You think a t-shirt and panties in an hour would be hotter than your jeans and t-shirt now? Ok!” Does she ramp up her consistency, her follow-through, her communication?
I never want anyone to feel stressed by my requests. I’ve written dozens of times about this. Anal Ava, I think – as Marina, and others, before her – doesn’t want to have to “keep track” of my requests, to remember when she said she would do what for me. And she surely doesn’t want me to respond to a sexy photo she sends with criticism or complaint: “That’s not what I asked for!”
She just wants, in a low-stakes, fun, way to have a bit of sexy back-and-forth.
I hope I can give her something that looks a bit more like this. Just as I hope she can give me something that looks just a bit more like what I want.
Truism: under-promising and over-delivering is hot. It’s a mantra. Or it should be. For any woman involved with me. No woman ever has disappointed me by saying, “I’m sorry – I won’t be able to get you that tonight (or this week, or this month), but I will tomorrow (or next week, or next month).” No woman ever has disappointed me by saying, “I know you’d like to see what I’m wearing now, but circumstances are such that I can’t send, or don’t feel comfortable sending, a photo of that. May I perhaps make that up to you by sending me three photos after I strip down to my bra and panties?”
And I see that what I’m asking for from Anal Ava feels at least potentially stressful to her. I wish I could make this not be so. I never want it to be so.
In this post, I write about my basic understanding of what respect looks like in relationships, in communication. About how the truth is, I don’t look for anything I don’t offer from my partners. What I want boils down to a few simple rules – rules to which I adhere scrupulously:
- Respond honestly to what I ask/say.
- Respond directly to what I ask/say.
- If possible, give me what I ask, promptly.
- If “promptly” isn’t possible, tell me what is possible, and then live up to that.
- If it becomes apparent that “living up to that” won’t be possible, let me know promptly, respectfully, apologetically.
- If what I ask isn’t possible not because it’s not possible promptly, but because either it’s uncomfortable, or it’s inconsistent with your desire, or whatever – tell me that, promptly, respectfully, and propose an alternative.
- If you think I’m asking for the wrong thing (“my t-shirt and panties would be hotter than what I’m wearing now”), gently tell me that and ask if I agree that I’m asking for the wrong thing. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Don’t presume you know better than I do what I want. Just offer me your perspective, but from the vantage point that we’re trying to get me what I want.
- Under-promise. Over-deliver.
None of that actually feels stressful to me, and it’s a code I live by in all my human interactions. Not submissively. Just respectfully, openly, communicatively.
Were Anal Ava different, were the combination of her beauty and her sexuality different, I might well simply turn away at this point, or give her a simple ultimatum. That’s not, though, where I am. [I have the sense the same is true of her with respect to me: something’s keeping her around, even as I’ve touched on something she doesn’t like feeling.]
As for me: at the moment, I’m turning toward my discomfort, experimenting with it, exploring it. I don’t harbor the fantasy that Anal Ava will magically become the devotedly submissive distant buddy I crave her to be. I don’t think she has that in her. [As I write that, I do a gut check: I do harbor that fantasy. I’m not prepared to abandon it. But, ] I/intellectually, I’m deciding to proceed as if I most likely will not receive precisely what I want from her, to adjust my asks, and my expectations, downward. Or maybe slightly to the side. To leave space for her to prove me wrong, for me to readjust all that stuff again.
Here’s my brief promised paean to Anal Ava:
I gave you, up above, a description of my first glimpse: a tantalizing shot that could be the cover of a romance novel. The next shot – her, in her blue dress – reveals a slender, toned body. Small(-ish) breasts. A pronounced clavicle. So far, she looks, she feels, almost dream-like. She’s kept her face from me, but she’s made herself Google-able. And I’ve found one photo of her. Incongruous, it seems, with what I’ve seen. I wouldn’t guess that the angelic, ovoid face would sit atop that rocking body. Let alone that it would profess a love for anal sex.
The next two shots she sent maintained my sense of mystery. In the first, the camera is cunt-level. She wears the same blue dress. Now, she’s hiking it up, toward her cunt. Not quite all the way. But close. Is she wearing panties? I can’t, quite, tell. But I do have a lovely glimpse of thigh.
In the second shot in this batch, she leans forward, toward the camera, showing me her lips again – full, wet. She’s showing me her cleavage. (She tells me her breasts are B, C, or D cup, depending.) In this shot, it looks delicious. She looks almost as if she’s reaching to turn the channel on an old-school TV (and I, the viewer, am the TV).
I’m enjoying getting to know Anal Ava, and I’m hopeful that you’ll hear more about her.
Postscript: I wrote this post a while back. Shortly afterwards, her brattiness and my demandingness came terminally into contact with one another. She wanted to give me what she wanted when she wanted, and not to be accountable. I wanted some accountability. We parted ways. I’m sad about it, because I do believe there was fun to be had there. But it was not meant to be.