Hypothetical Conversation with my Parents

My friend recently came out to his family about his kinks and the world didn’t end. I was lamenting how I could not do the same, and he offered to come with me and be my backup if I ever decide to tell them.

He’s a really, really good friend.

Here’s how I imagine the conversation before the conversation would go:

Via phone
Dad: Helloooooo
phi: Hi papi.
Dad: HI! Wow! It’s so good to hear your voice!
phi: Thanks. So. What city are you in right now?
Dad: Right now we are on our way home from…
phi: No, I mean, which home? Are you in Texas or California?
Dad: Oh. We’re in California.
phi: Great. You guys busy for dinner tonight?
Dad: We would love to have you over! We could invite your brother and the kids and our neighbors and….
phi: OK. I’m coming over for dinner. Don’t invite anybody else, though. I want to talk about something important.
Dad: Oh – do you have a boyfriend?
phi: No, it’s not that.
Dad: Are we having grandchildren?
phi: No, it’s not that. I’ll see you tonight and we’ll talk about it then.
Dad: Hang on. Mom wants to talk to you.
phi: sigh
Mom: Helloooooooo
phi: Hi.
Mom: Long time no talk!
phi: I talked to you three days ago.
Mom: But you never call me anymore.
phi: The phone works both ways, mom.
Mom: I know, but you’re always so busy.
phi: Yes. Which is why I haven’t talked to you in three days.
Mom: Okay. Okay. Don’t bite my head off.
phi: I’m not biting your head off. I’m pointing out that three days is not a long time and if you wanted to talk to me sooner you could have called me.
Mom: Anyway. Papi says you’re coming over tonight?
phi: Yes.
Mom: And you want to talk about something?
phi: yes.
Mom: What is it?
phi: I’ll talk to you about it tonight.
Mom: Does it have to do with a boyfriend?
phi: NO. Oh my gosh, mom. I’ll talk to you about it tonight. That’s the whole reason I’m coming over.
Mom: Oh, so you’re not coming over just to see us?
phi: silence
Mom: Hello?
phi: What?
Mom: Can you hear me?
phi: yes.
Mom: Just tell me. Do you have a boyfriend?
phi: No, I don’t have a boyfriend.
Mom: And you’re not pregnant.
phi: If I were we’d have to change religions ’cause I’m still not having sex, mom.
Mom: Oh, phi.
phi: huffs
Mom: What time you coming over?
phi: After work. I’m bringing someone with me.
Mom: who?
phi: A friend.
Mom: Is it Lisa?
phi: No, another friend. You haven’t met him.
Mom: Ah.
phi: What?
Mom: It’s Andrew.
phi: Yes, it’s him.
Mom: But he’s not your boyfriend.
phi: NO. He’s not my boyfriend.
Mom: And you’re not pre-…
phi: HE IS JUST A FRIEND I AM NOT PREGNANT.
Mom: OK OK! Sheesh. You don’t have to get so upset! No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend!
phi: I think I’m changing my mind about all of this.
Mom: All of what? What’s the big secret?
phi: MOM. Please respect that I’m want to share something with you and I would like to do it in person and stop asking me for details now.
Mom: But if he’s not your boyfriend and you’re not pregnant, why is he coming?
phi: You’ll understand later! I have to go! hangs up

A conversation with my parents – The meeting

doorbell rings. dogs bark incessantly
PHI: (to friend) Brace yourself.
FRIEND: You go this.
PHI: Yeah, but you…
FRIEND: I got this.
door opens
MOM AND DAD: HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!
PHI: Hi. hugs and kisses Mom, Dad, this is my friend Andrew. Andrew, this is mom and dad.
FRIEND: Pleasure to meet you.
MOM: goes in for the hug with a nervous chuckle she’s trying to mask as welcoming and friendly, which it is but also it’s nervous Hi! So great to meet you. We rarely get to meet any of phi’s friends.
PHI: You’ve met lots of my friends.
MOM: Yeah, but not the ones you talk about the most.
PHI: mutters under breath Yeah, we’ll get to that.
DAD: Who wants wine?
PHI: Dear God Yes. Now. Me. Yes. Wine. Excellent.
FRIEND: Wine sounds great.
DAD: Excellent, I’ve just opened a bottle.
PHI: muttering more like the second bottle…
MOM: menacingly phi….
PHI: raises eyebrow
MOM: Yeah, okay it’s the second bottle.
ALL make their way to the kitchen area. FRIEND follows DAD ahead of MOM and PHI
MOM: es guapo.
PHI: basta.
MOM: cuantos años tiene?
PHI: basta.
MOM: I’m just asking.
PHI: Stop.
MOM: no tiene novia?
PHI: Papi, the wine. Make it a double.
DAD: Nervous laughter, troll grin Ok, You got it!
FRIEND: (because he has manners and was raised right) You have a lovely home.
MOM: Oh, Thank you. (starts mentally picking out china patterns)
PHI: drinks half the glass in one gulp

FAST FORWARD THROUGH DINNER DURING WHICH BOTH PARENTS ASK FRIEND MANY POINTED QUESTIONS ABOUT HIS FAMILY, LIFE, AND AMBITIONS. THEY ARE FULL ON INTERVIEWING HIM FOR HUSBANDHOOD AND I AM DRINKING. HEAVILY. FRIEND REACHES HIS FOOT OVER TO TOUCH MY FOOT UNDER THE TABLE AS IF TO SAY ‘I CAN HANDLE THIS’. I AM EMBARRASSED AS FUCK.

DAD: Who wants cappuccino?
PHI: Before that, I think I’m ready now.
MOM: Okay.
PHI: (looks at friend, gets a nod and continues) Remember when [late husband] and I took you to dinner in Ojai with his mom and told you about his life as a pornographer and how the magazine he worked at was part of the adult industry?
MOM: Oh My God you’re a porn star.
PHI: NO.
DAD: Thank God.
PHI: I just want you to remember that you were upset after we told you and it took you about a week before you spoke to us again. And eventually it became a big joke and it stopped bothering you so much.
MOM: Phi, just tell us.
PHI: OK. Remember when we cleaned out the garage and we saw all those books on bondage and BDSM and I said I had a friend that was into that stuff and instead of donating those books I would give them to that friend?
DAD: looks at FRIEND
MOM: looks at FRIEND You’re that friend?
FRIEND: squeezes PHI’S hand
PHI: I kept the books. They’re mine. They were always mine. I’m the one that’s into that stuff.
MOM: phi…
DAD: face just goes slack and registers no emotion
PHI: becomes enthralled with her own cuticles
FRIEND: I’m here because I met phi because we both share this …uh…interest. It’s part of who we are. I’ve known phi for a while now and she’s an amazing person. You should be proud of the daughter you’ve raised.
MOM: looks at phi, raises eyebrows
PHI: He’s still not my boyfriend. Stoppit.
MOM: We are proud of her.
DAD: I don’t understand, what is the point of telling us?
PHI: I didn’t want to keep lying to you. You guys ask so many questions about where i’m going and who i’m with and what do we do and how do I know people. I want you to either stop asking or ask knowing that the answer i’m going to give you isn’t what you want to hear. I hate lying, so I tell you nothing.
MOM: Have you tried therapy?
FRIEND: This isn’t something either of us wants to “cure.”
MOM: But it’s not normal.
FRIEND: It’s more normal than most people imagine.
PHI: There’s something else.
MOM: ahora que?
PHI: I told you guys I’ve been doing some writing, and I read some of them to you. I know you noticed there were a lot I didn’t want to read to you.
MOM: Yes.
PHI: Because they were about stuff like this. Because I wasn’t ready to share it. But listen, I’m really proud of it. Of the writing. I want to be able to share some of it more publicly and with that comes the risk that it will find its way to you.
MOM: Oh.
DAD: switches wine glasses with MOM because she never finishes hers
PHI: Do you guys need some time to process this?
DAD: Maybe we do.
MOM: Phi. We love you. You know that. But this…
FRIEND: Mr. and Mrs. is-me, I think it’s important to know that phi is very safe, has a very good group of friends, and that there are a lot of people out there, including me, who respect and care about her the way any parent would want to respect and care for their child. But phi is not a child. She’s an adult.
MOM: No, I know, but…
DAD: How did we raise a daughter to make so many bad choices?
PHI: You don’t want me to answer that.
FRIEND: Phi….don’t….
MOM: What? We were bad parents? I was a bad mother?
PHI: No…I…. never mind.
FRIEND: Maybe it’s best you give them time to process this information like you suggested, PHI. We can go now.
DAD: Yeah, you should go now.
PHI: eyeroll Fine. Just, next time you ask me if I’m busy and I say yes and I don’t volunteer the information about what I’m doing – don’t press for it.
DAD: Fine.
MOM: I don’t press…
DAD: Yes you do.
PHI: Yes you do.
DOGS: Yes you do.
PHI: I’m sorry if this news has hurt you. I hope you learn to accept it.
DAD: I don’t know if I can accept it. But I love you.
PHI: That’s about as much as I could ask.

ONE WEEK LATER

phone rings
DAD: We’re having a bunch of people over for a BBQ Saturday night. Come join us.
PHI: Oh, ..thanks. Sorry, I have plans for Saturday night with friends.
pause
DAD: So…what you’re saying, is you’re going to be a little tied up?

And that’s pretty much how it would go.

Who is phi?

Uh. Hi. I’m phi.

Right. So, I wasn’t actually expecting people to find this blog for a while. I figured I’d fill it up with some back entries of my fetlife blogs and then eventually figure out if and how I wanted to attract other readers to read them. I mean, I have a lot of people who read them on Fetlife already.

But I get people who aren’t on Fetlife that meet me in real life and ask, “So, what do you write about?” Rather than send them to the place where they have to create an account and be subjected to ALL the deviants, I created a public facing blog where they can bear witness to just my deviance.

And now, some of you have found it. Somehow.

HI!

You don’t have the benefit of knowing me in real life or reading the near-300 back-catalog of self-expression that my Fet followers have access to, so I thought I’d share a little background that might add some dimensions to the stuff you’ll get from me if you stick around for the ride.

Here goes:

Phi is pronounced “fee” and is short for the online handle I use in my real life, which is too easy to google and connect to me, so I shortened it to phi, which people call me anyway.

I do, in fact, answer to “phi.”

I’m a 36 year-old woman that hails from (and continues to reside in) southern California. Ok, almost 37. Wow. I’m almost 37…what the …? No wait, I am 37 now. And nearly 38. Timey-wimey.

Anyway, I write about kinky shit. Mostly. If you were to really boil it down to its essence, I write about feelings.

Sometimes my writing is funny. I haven’t posted too many of those here yet, but they’re coming. Sometimes they’ll make you cry. I haven’t given you many of those yet either, but…they’re coming. Sometimes they just make you think. Sometimes they make you diddle.

People like the ones that make them diddle.

I have a day job that has nothing to do with sex or kink or writing. I want to change this, and starting a public facing blog was one of the steps in my very well-formed strategic plan to achieve literary greatness as a smut writer.

I haven’t figured out step 2 yet.

That’s a lie. I have.

Over on FetLife I started a series called Slutcapades. It’s sort of a collection of memoirs from my wanton youth (and beyond). I was a bit of a wild thing. I’m currently working on editing those stories together with the goal of self-publishing them. I’ve tested the whole self-publishing thing out w/ an e-book on kindle called No Words, which is a story about a person who looks and acts just like me receiving a visit from a very sexy man who looks and acts very much like another popular Fetlife personality.

Belts are involved.

This is a big, scary goal (the publishing, not the belt thing. Okay, also the belt thing). See, I’m not out to my parents about being kinky. I have a feeling that deviance runs in my very large extended family, so it’s only a matter of time before some cousin or aunt or uncle or in-law thinks, “hmm…that redhead looks like so-and-so. I should ask her parents if they know about this.”

I’d rather they find out from me, and I’m not quite ready to tell them yet.

I did, however, write a humorous hypothetical exchange on how that conversation would go, if I were to have it.

Okay, so you know where I came from, why I’m here, my approximate age range and a sense of what my voice is like. The part you don’t know – the part that will shed light on a lot of things is the part that throws people off sometimes.

I’m a widow.

I was with my late husband for about 10 years before he passed away in January 2014, so yes – still somewhat of a recent widow. I’ve had trouble re-negotiating how people do dating now, and the re-entry into the life of a single woman has been a bit bumpy.

I am currently partnered with a polyamorous man, at least as of the time I’m updating this writing. I am not (at this time) polyamorous myself, so that’s a fun new challenge for me to work with.

Now that that’s out of the way, I can start posting some of the other blogs that wouldn’t have made as much sense without that context.

I’m very active on fetlife so if you are already on there and want to add me, go for it. It will just make for a lot of redundancies until I have figured out how my two audiences will differ. I’m also hilariously attached to my cell phone and love receiving and replying to comments or questions here, there, or wherever, whenever possible.

Otherwise, welcome to my brain. Hope you enjoy your visits!

On Breaking

I’ve written about the idea of being “broken” before. Now that I’ve got my storytelling mojo back, I don’t write as many poems as I used to (also HVN told me my poems suck, and I haven’t written one since). But “I will not break” is still one of my favorite writings.

In one of the angry posts I wrote (and subsequently deleted) a few weeks ago after I let rage get the best of me, I wrote something along the lines of “Every time one of you writes about wanting to break someone, I laugh at you.”

It went on to say “Fuck you. I won’t break.”

Like I said, I was angry. I sorted out the source of my anger, addressed it, and moved on to a kinder, gentler phi.

Earlier today I wrote about the only beating that ever made me cry. Was it the beating or the meaning behind it that brought forth those tears? I’d guess it has more to do with the latter. I loved him. Even as he was leaving me, he loved me. Hell, he was “doing it for my own good,” something I knew to be true then and still fought against.

By the end of those ten smacks with the cheeseboard I was a sniffling, bawling, wretched mess of a woman. In fact, I’d regressed to girl, and I clung to him, physically then, and emotionally over the next several months.

But I wasn’t broken. It wasn’t the worst I’d ever endured.

Try telling an 86 year-old woman that her son, the last surviving member of her nuclear family, didn’t wake up that morning. Try being the wife who had to stay strong that day for the sake of his teenage daughter, who was with me that morning and endured the whole ordeal by my side.

I’ll take 50 wooden paddles to the ass over ever having to experience that morning again.

I couldn’t call red that day. I couldn’t say a word and end that nightmare.

But with you, future partner, I can.

And that’s why you can’t break me. Not without violating my trust in the ugliest and most despicable of ways.

You want me to cry? I’ll tell you the secret. The only way you’ll get the tearful sobbing mess of a girl that’s clinging to your thighs as you stand above her with all the power:

Love me.

I will not break

Nobody is going to “break” me.
Not in either sense of the word.

I’m not a “wild and untamed” thing that needs to be brought to her knees and controlled despite her instinct to thrash and claw her way out of anybody’s grasp.

I’m not a porcelain statue with a crack on the side,
decreasing my value to anybody but the one who put it there.

No. I’m not broken, and I won’t be.

Life tried to break me and I got stronger.

And now, I’m here. I know who I am. I know what I am.
Even more: I know I’m capable of change.

Is that why they get scared?

Because I’ve got my shit together?
Because I don’t actually need anybody?
Because I can take care of myself?

Well, they’re silly.

Because when I submit, it’s not from need, or fear, or defeat.
It’s from desire. It’s from want. It’s from choice.

My choice.

And I’m good at it.

Because I can share that strength.
And, I can share that desire.

I can give him that power he craves
as long as he understands

It’s mine to give.
Not his to take.

I will not break.

The Punishment

“Ugh,” she cringed. “This really isn’t necessary, Sir.”

“Shut up,” he answered as he sat on the bed beside her restrained body and ran his fingers along her thigh from knee to hip.

“Aren’t there better ways to punish me?” she asked.

“Not really,” he couldn’t help but chuckle. “You love all the other things I could do to you, and you don’t respond well to being ignored.”

“You could make me write lines.”

“I could,” he leaned down and sank his teeth into her fleshy inner thigh. She moaned and strained against the rope.

“Please,” she begged, her face horrified as he lay on his belly between her legs. “Please, not this. I’m sorry I fucked up, Sir.”

“Shut up,” he growled, as his mouth made its way toward the source of her dismay.

“But, Sir, you’ll get tired of it and I’ll feel bad. It takes too long this way. At least let me go wash up. I just feel so….,” She didn’t get to finish before he stuffed her discarded panties into her mouth then returned to his previous position.

“I said shut up. You earned this punishment. Now relax and take it like the good little slut you know you can be and maybe I’ll feed you my cock later.”

He’d finally found a punishment he loved to administer that she hated to receive.

Tuesday Morning

Most mornings (and evenings) the wand is all that’s necessary. One, two, three times and she’s good to go.

This morning, her need went a little deeper.

It’d been over a month since the last time.

She lay in bed, having pulled the seldom-used black vibrating fuckstick from the nightstand drawer and unrolled a condom over it. At least they were getting used for something.

She lay back, spread her legs and put the pointed edge up toward her already lubricated hole. When the pain started, she pulled up the image of a man – this one or that one or the other one, urging her to continue. Pressing her to keep pushing inward.

It took several minutes to work it inside. Then she reached for the button and the vibrations began.

Before pulling the wand out to do its regular thing, she pumped the toy in and out of herself a few times until guttural cursing startled the cats off the bed.

It was time.

She squeezed her already tight muscles around the intruder and reached for the vibrating wand with one hand while pinching at her nipple with the other.

The orgasm echoed off the walls of her empty house calling out the name of whichever one had taken residence at the forefront of her mind in that moment.

She looked up at nothing with eyes as wet as her cunt and imagined him, or him, or the other one praising her for her good work.

It’ll be at least another month until the next one like this.

When it’s finally his turn he’ll feel how long she’s waited for him.

The Cheeseboard

There were two of us.  She was the pain whore. I was the pleasure whore. She loved to be marked. I hated it.

“I’m not a sadist,” he’d say.  “She likes the pain, I don’t have to give it to her.”

“Well, I’m not a masochist,” I’d say.  “I don’t like that much pain.  I only like the fun pain.”

He and I took a weekend trip to San Francisco and stopped by a leather store to look for toys.  He got each of us a leash, and then he went to look at paddles.

He picked up this enormous, thick wooden paddle.  I shook my head.  “That’s for her, not me.”

“Turn around,” he said.

“That one isn’t for me.  She’s the pain whore,” I reminded him.

“Turn around,” he insisted.

I did.  He swatted my ass with it, not with much gusto.  Even through the jeans it hurt more than I would have liked.

“Nope.  That’s a big nope for phi, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.”

I started calling it the cheeseboard, because it looked like something you’d serve cheese on at a dinner party more than an implement for beating. He swatted me once bare-assed with it at the hotel.  I called red on it instantly and glared at him for even attempting it.

He’d taken it with him the next time he went to stay with her. She hated it.  It came back to my house.

Things eventually went south.  Very south. When he came back to Los Angeles for our final breakup, I was a wreck.  He’d hurt me so deeply, over and over again, until I’d finally had enough.

And even then I was hoping he’d change his mind and realize he was making the wrong choice.

“I know I am,” he said, “but it’s what’s best for you.”

“You said I was your trophy. You said I was your prize.”

“You are,” he responded. “She’s my consolation prize. I have to let you go.”

I begged him to beat me one last time.  To make my outside hurt match my inside hurt.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said.  He hadn’t thought it was such a bad idea to force feed my throat with his cock earlier that day. I pointed this out to him.

“Fine.  This will be the last time.  And it’s 10 swats with the cheeseboard.”

Funny how he’d told me he wasn’t a sadist.

He didn’t go easy on me.  I’ll never forget that final beating. He made me count them and thank him for each one, and I did – knowing they would be the last ten I’d ever get from him.

It’s the only time I’ve ever cried from a beating.