July 2, 2000
I am not a bikini wearing fluffy girl type. (And to those of you out there gasping in mock surprise, Fuck you. Ya sarcastic bastards.) I can't recall a time when I honestly liked pink 'cause it's a pretty, elegantly non-threatening color. As it stands as of right now, I do not own any frilly foofoo clothing... I think... And, in fact, if you find me wearing anything more girlie than jeans and maybe a black lace bra it's a strange fuckin' day indeed. Now, don't get this message wrong; I am definately female in almost every respect. (no, that does not mean I have a penis, get it out of yer head.) But I just don't feel that regular shaving and Vanilla perfume is going to make me more womanly. In fact, if anything, it's just going to make me sick. Just thinking about that damn perfume makes me queasey... *urp* ...excuse one *urpl* moment, please...
*insert the aproximate time to run to the toilet and empty stomach*
...Okay, enough of that. That's silly. The point to this long winded anti girlie blurb is this : I made a drastic mistake last weekend. I dressed up. Yup, that's right, heels, red slinky dress and all. That on it's own wasn't such a bad thing. (besides the hell I put myself through for those fuckin' shoes...) The fatal error was that I then went to a birthday party at Freak Manor.
Let me paint a (somewhat less than vivid) picture of the Manor before I go on. You may have seen the link on my link page but there isn't much on the website to give you an idea of what goes on at the Freak parties. So unless you've been there personally, (or heard me talk about it on some other occasion, you just don't know. At a past party I was talking with a friend outside while trying not to notice a chick give head thirty feet away on the lawn, thirty feet from the I-5 on ramp. I've been witness to whiped creamy messes, lewd back room body shots, many females running around in all stages of nekedness, and much half neked and tethered dancing on the make shift dance floor. I've heard of "hands on" oral displays held in the kitchen, summer streaking down at the Drive Inn, and groups of behind-doors photo shoots... candid photography nudge nudge wink wink... And that's just in the year I've been an infrequent guest. Yeah, I could go on, but you get the picture, right?
So, in I walk wearing a form fitting red dress, nice black heels, and no flannel in sight. What was I thinking? I must have been groped, prodded, felt up, down, all the fuck around more than I have in ...well... a while. No problem, I was kinda expecting it, (this is where I finally get to the core of the story) but while hanging out on the stairs watching a friend take off her dress and show us her thong (I dunno, but I sure wasn't going to complain. Damn but she's something!) someone decided to notice my breasts and how they persisted in being covered.
Of all things.
Basically he didn't understand why. I tried to explain to him (and the rest of the people there who all shifted attention to me instead of the lovely thong that was all too soon covered again) that "Sarah doesn't do that." ...Basically I flaked. I couldn't think of a good enough reason to not show my tits. Something not so prudish, maybe a line out of some cool and mysterious flick that only movie snobs would recognise. If I'd come up with "I'd show you but then I'd have to kill you" or "My breasts are too much for a girlie man like you to take." at least that would be something... Sigh. But no. And at first it wasn't enough of an explaination for John. But this guy is just a goat fucker. (I considered keeping his name out of it but I came to the conclusion that if he feels like he knows me well enough to question my reasons for ANYTHING, let alone baring a part of my body to a crowd of people, then I feel like I know him well enough to publicaly, verbally, throw shit at him) I started thinking about the whole thing and got a little more angy than I should've. I think.
The thing is, I've never considered showing my body off the way the others do simply because I DON'T WANNA. That's right, Sarah's got a few too many reservations to go around topless or even simply just flashing the ol' goods about for any occasion. Let alone on the stairs at a party in front of some guy (the goat fucker) that I don't feel right about. He gives me the heebie jeebies in the worse way. That's not to say that I think others should stop showing me their undies, I'm all for it. No, really. Please? Hello?
So what I'm saying is this : just because I dressed up a little and a few people got a little more touchy feely than usual, doesn't give just anyone the full tour. I am not your amusement ride, you do not get an all day pass just 'cause I show up at the Manor and have breasts.
Except for some of the other people who don't fuck goats. I like you guys. And, while I'm not going to show anyone my tits, I have a third nipple you may be interested in...