New post, Cole:

Hola a todos!  I hope everyone is doing well. 

If you read last week’s post, you will recall that I have decided to take a thirty-day (perhaps plus) hiatus from the Rapist.  If you’ve been reading my posts from the beginning, you will know that this is not something anywhere near easy for me, so I’ve decided to seduce myself into making the task at hand a little bit more bearable.

 Following in the footsteps of the beautiful Wednesday Addams, Marge’s middle daughter, I figured a little “retail therapy” might lessen the brutal blow of going without sex or communication of any sort with the Rapist, and soothe my pangs of sexual withdraws and verbal anorexia. 

People who know me very well know that I have several vices, and not only am I fine with them; I embrace them like children of my very own.  The most obvious of them are liquor, sex, nicotine, and bacon, but the ones few people know about are my unhealthy obsession with lingerie, literature, and stationary, with perfume falling shortly behind.  Liquor, sex, nicotine and savory foods are never really further than an arm’s reach away, and in fact I do make a point to read for an hour or so in bed, (at the least) before I go to sleep every night, but nice, quality lingerie and a few written words, the “old fashioned” way, on nice stationary, elude me more often than I would like to admit.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have drawers upon drawers of incredible lingerie, from Victoria’s Secret to La Perla and everything in-between, but due to the fact that I am a construction worker and come home filthy from head to toe, I am in no way willing to wear a two hundred dollar bra to work that I know will end up forever stained or even worse, as happened a month or so back, with a hole burnt through it because the red hot nail tip I was grinding off fell down my shirt, into my bra, and not only burned a hole through my shirt and bra, it also burned my precious right breast, and has left me with a scar that will most likely never fade.  And I’m ok with that.  Scars, as with variety, add a little spice to life, and I would be far unhappier without scars than with them, I’m just saying the opportunity to wear this incredible lingerie is tragically rare…

So, back to my vices.  As many of you know, Marge and I went to Las Vegas for my “thirty, nerdy, inked and dirty”.  Vegas isn’t exactly Marge’s “thing”, but I think that we both did a few things that we enjoyed immensely while we were there, some of them we have mentioned, others we have kept private because neither of us wants to “incriminate” ourselves.  I suppose I should get to the point…

     On the actual day of my 30’th birthday, once the sun went down, we wanted to go “drunken lingerie shopping”.  For some reason this was something we had agreed upon before we even left for Vegas.  What can I say?  We’re just weird (and also AWESOME) like that.  Well my vices are difficult enough to try to keep sedated in our tranquil little town on the central coast of California, but in Vegas my self control button tends to get stuck, especially if it’s my birthday, and an epic one at that.

 

     We had been drinking all day beside the pool at Caesar’s Palace, myself more than Marge, because liquor is my vice, not hers, and I had quite a healthy buzz on by the time we left to do our shopping.  As a matter of fact, my buzz was so warming and comforting, that I didn’t even bother to glance at the price tags of the insanely hot and sexy lingerie I was trying to purchase at Agent Provocateur, and you could not imagine the shock I received when my bank card was declined when I went to pay out, and while I was trying to sort things out with the cashier, not thirty seconds later my bank called, trying to verify if indeed I had just tried to make a two thousand dollar purchase at a lingerie store in Vegas, or if my card had been stolen. 

     I swear to you right now, if any liquid had been in my mouth at that moment in time, I would have spewed it all over the lovely cashiers in front of me. 

     I thought it was a mistake.  Two bras, two pairs of panties, and a garter belt totaled to over two thousand dollars?  It seemed outrageous to me, and it was, but one set in particular I wanted to get, all black, bra, panties, garter belt, so bondage, with its crisscross of fabric, straps, and everything so appropriately placed.  I felt like I was kissing my lingerie soul mate goodbye that day when I had to walk away, defeated.  But before you shed a tear for me, just know that I have shed enough for myself over that loss, and about a week ago I decided I would cry no more, fore I ordered the exact same setup for myself, online, and it came in the mail just the other day.  I tried it on, to make sure that it fit, and just as I had remembered it, it fit like a kinky, S&M inspired glove!  It’s the type of getup that goes hand in hand with whips and handcuffs, ball gags and a leather leash and collar.  In short, it was everything I dreamed it could be and more…

     Now, you must understand, there are two reasons I enjoy quality lingerie.  The first and primary reason I enjoy it is to make myself feel sexy.  It doesn’t matter if what I am wearing above it is a haggard pair of Dickie’s and a wife beater, or if I am wearing it somewhere that no one would suspect that what I had on underneath would make them cum in their pants, the fact that I know what is going on under my clothes makes me feel more amazing than if I was wearing Hanes men’s white briefs and a sports bra.

     The second reason I would wear such decadent undergarments, is of course, if I was wearing them for a man I felt deserved to see me in such an extravagant getup, and who would appreciate it as much as I.  I may or may not have mentioned in previous posts, I think I should have been able to live the life I live in now in the era of the roaring 20’s in Paris, all pearls, heels, lingerie, silk stockings, dresses, perfume, and the excitement and passion that pulsed through the arteries of that time.  

     Anyway, I stayed true to myself when I made this rather extravagant purchase because primarily, I bought the lingerie for myself, but if the Rapist behaves the way I hope he does, it will be a little present for himself as well, because the man does love it when I go all out for him, and I think he will especially like the latest number I got.  Just before I stopped talking to him I told him I was lingerie shopping.  I alluded to the fact that it was pretty kinky, S&M inspired attire, and that I was hoping one day I could wear it for him, handcuffed.  Hopefully that image is branded into the crevices of his brain and he falters before I do…

     And the last of my vices, the stationary, well, I have plenty, and all it’s doing is sitting in my file cabinet collecting more and more dust as time passes and I do not write anyone a letter, so I thought of an idea.  Just because I’m not communicating with Rapist doesn’t mean that I can’t write to him, it just means I can’t send what I write, at least not yet.  Primarily, Rapist and I text, email, and speak on the phone, and as he says, I have written him some truly beautiful emails, but how lame is that, when you really think about it?  Is that progress?  If it is, I find it incredibly depressing!  So now, when we get older and we want to show our grandchildren the beautiful collection of love letters our suitors have sent us we have to boot up our computers as apposed to fishing an old shoe box full of beautifully scented letters from the attic?  Maybe it’s just me, but I think that’s tragic.  So I’m thinking of temporarily replacing the vice of sex with the vice of writing the Rapist, whenever I feel so inclined, a beautiful letter, expressing how I feel about him and our current situation, on lovely stationary, scent it with my perfume, but instead of sending it I will hold onto it.  That way, if things work out, he can read them later. 

     Much like this blog, writing to him will be cathartic for me, because I really do miss it.  I used to write him an email every night before I went to bed, when I knew he was working, so that he would have a few lovely words to read when he woke up in the morning.  Just a little something to let him know that I was thinking about him, and something that would cheer him up when he got to work and checked his email.  He has told several times how much he looks forward to reading my morning emails, and whenever I am too busy, and there isn’t one waiting for him, he gets so disappointed.  Writing a love letter as apposed to a love email is more meaningful, in my opinion, I can use it as a bit of a crutch for myself, and in addition to that, I just straight don’t trust myself to write him and email and NOT send it, or even just press send out of habit.  

    

Damn.  I miss him.  And I hate myself for missing him…

  

As another week slowly rolls by, I can’t help but wonder why the Rapist and I even got together in the first place, and how I allowed myself fall in love with him.  Sure, in the beginning, it was because I was horny and he was there, but so were several other guys, other options I could have chosen from, but I just had to choose him.  Like him, the danger of it appealed to me.  It appealed to me because it was “wrong” to screw someone in the same department as my ex, according to society, and the thought that I might get away with something naughty and taboo enticed me. 

The first time I became aware of Rapist’s presence, I was offended at the way he spoke to me, with such unwarranted familiarity, such blatant, overt desire.  The way he undressed me with his eyes was anything but discreet.  I had no idea who he was, yet he knew me, knew who I was, what my name was, and he would call me out, by my name, and find any way to tease me in some silly way or another.  I remember the first time he did it.  I was completely taken off guard.  I thought to myself “who in the fuck is this guy, how does he know my name, and where does he get off, speaking to me as if we know each other?”  In short, I wondered who in the fuck he thought he was.  In the end, he turned out to be just the man I wanted him to be (in the sack), but only because I “trained” him. 

     The first time he actually “bothered” me (after several run ins and exchanges) was when I was in the Radiological controlled unit of my work.  Before Sedouche fucked me out of a job because I wouldn’t fuck him, I worked both in the RCA (radiological control Area) in the protected area of the nuclear power plant, and also outside of it, doing HAZMAT.  It was not unusual for me to need to go in and out of the RCA, to tend to a pending job that I was qualified to carry out, and others on my crew were not. 

So, not to get all nuclear nerd, but in order to better understand the unsavory situation at hand, I must explain something.  When one enters the RCA, one needs to wear a device that measures the amount of radiation one will receive while in an area that may or may not emit a certain amount of radiation.  This device is called a PED.  In the industry, when entering the RCA we call it “pedding in”, and when exiting the RCA we call it “pedding out”.  So, that fateful day, I had needed to rush out of the RCA to tend to another job, and though I left the RCA, I forgot to PED out.  I did whatever it was that needed to be done, and in trying to PED back into the RCA, the computer refused me.

     It only took me a moment to realize that I was already Pedded in, which was why the computer had rejected me, but while I was in the midst of figuring this out, the Rapist was exiting the RCA.  When I realized my silly mistake, and was expressing it to the person who watched people exiting and entering the RCA, the Rapist didn’t hesitate to jump right in and engage me in conversation, to tease me being silly and having forgotten that I was already pedded in.  He never hesitated.  He was on me like flies on dog shit, always had been. 

    

That was the first time that I was aware that he wanted to fuck me, but at the time I was more offended (I’m using the word lightly) than intrigued.  You must understand, and I know that Marge can relate, being one of the few women in the field, working in the male dominated industry of a nuclear power, women receive a lot of attention.  I never took kindly to any man speaking to me on a familiar level if they did not know me personally.  I found it rude, and I did not appreciate it.

     It only took a few more run-ins with him for me to decide that he would be a perfect, casual fuck.  Primarily, I knew since he was in the same department as my ex, Martychist, that he would keep his mouth shut, in order to not alienate himself at work. 

I was sure he would be down, yet at the same time I was hesitant.  It was a potentially dangerous situation, and I was dubious.  I knew he would keep his mouth shut if we fucked, but what if I was wrong about him?  What if he was in a relationship situation?  What if, like so many others, he had taken Martychist’s side, or he was loyal to his fellow “nuclear operator brothers”?  What if I came onto him and he actually wasn’t “down”, as I had believed him to be, and he was just a lecherous flirt?  I could get fired for coming onto someone at work.  Sexual harassment is not taken lightly (aside from in my case, with Sedouche, of course).  I wasn’t willing to risk my job just to get laid, so I decided to play it safe.

     I saw him one last time before I made my decision.  I hadn’t gotten laid in so long and I was horny to the point of distraction.  A nuclear power plant is no place to be distracted, so I knew I was going to have to do something soon!  I was pedding into the RCA, and he was about to, but went into the men’s room first.  It was a rare, brutally hot day.  I was wearing black Dickie’s, as usual, and a white men’s Hanes t-shirt, my sleeve’s rolled up, due to the heat.  It was another of those days that I needed to run in and out of the RCA and the protected area, and I was dripping with sweat.  The rapist and I exchanged a few words as we collided simultaneously in the hallway.  As I turned left to grab a PED, the rapist went straight into the men’s room.  As we ended our conversation and parted ways, I could feel his eyes upon me.  He simply could not look away.  It was at that moment I knew I had him, and I decided that the next time I was alone with him I would make my move.  What I wanted to do was walk up to him, slam him against the wall and start making out with him, but I figured a more discrete approach would be better, in case my advances were not reciprocated.

It only took me another week to catch him alone.  He was on break in the training building.  I was on my way out to the hazardous waste facility when I got a page.  I went into the training building and began searching for an available phone, and there he was, sitting in a chair in one of the offices.  I didn’t even see him at first, but he saw me, and he chastised me for not saying hello to him.  I had a lolly pop in my mouth.  I offered one to him and asked him where the nearest phone was.  I took off my hideous, bulky jacket, left it on the chair next to him so that I would have to return and fetch it, and I returned the page.  A co-worker told me that I needed to pick up a truck driver in one of several parking lots.  I came back to get my jacket.  He couldn’t wipe this gigantic grin off his face that made me want to sock him in the face and hop on his cock at the same time.

It’s difficult to explain, but there was just something about him that I couldn’t resist.  He made me angry, yet I was drawn to him, and the angrier he made me the more intrigued I became.  I guess if I had to describe it in one word, the word would be chemistry.  Chemistry is something that comes naturally and cannot be forced nor denied.  You can feel it buzzing around you like static electricity.  I invited him over for a “beer”.  It only took him three or four days to make that “beer” happen.  We’ve been “drinking beer” together since Easter of 2012…