Big Fat Hairy Living

My boyfriend and I were lying in bed chatting when I asked him if he minded that I’d given a blow job to a cub friend of mine on the weekend. He told me that he didn’t mind, but that he doesn’t want me to have sex with other daddies. The protective territoriality of that statement got my cock rock hard right away: he wasn’t asking me to please not have sex with other daddies, he was telling me not to.

I agreed to what actually was a request, but was phrased as a command. Nothing gets me harder quicker than his daddy bear telling him to do or not to do something. I can just imagine a hot daddy coming on to me at the Toolbox’s New Year’s Eve party and having to tell him, “Sorry, but I’m not allowed to play with other daddies.” You wouldn’t think that would make me hot, but it does.

cub4bear: Why am I surrounded by idiots?
FuzzToyBC: You’re on #bearcave!

I went to Vazaleen last night with Adam, Brodie, Greg, and John. I managed to hold out until around 1 AM, at which point the noise, people, and smoke got to me. It was too much for me, and I left.

I’ve never been one for crowds; I’ve always felt more comfortable in small groups. My only concern is that my the boyfriend will be annoyed that I went to Vazaleen with them and not him.

I’m suffering from boyfriend withdrawal. Damn him, getting me addicted!

Why am I me and not someone else?

An Ode to the Eaton Centre.

I didn’t get any sexy football players for Christmas, but I still got a great haul.

• An historical atlas of York County in 1878 from my mom
• An “extraordinary chickens” calendar from my mom
• A cool opera CD from my sister
• A very nice hand-blown vase from my sister
• A really cool two-piece african violet pot from my mom and my sister
• A new Eddie Bauer shirt from the boyfriend
• A funky orange and brown 60’s era West German clay pot from the boyfriend
• A care package of turkey leftovers

Not that Christmas is about presents or anything. Remember: it’s about a bastard and his virgin mother’s stretched pussy and miraculously intact hymen.

I visited Mark on Monday evening to snuggle with him and watch him pack for his trip to Ottawa. I’d miscalculated the weather and hadn’t worn a sweater that day, so I was freezing. Because we had to go out to run errands, Mark lent me his sweater so I wouldn’t be uncomfortable.

I’m still wearing it today. It smells like Mark.

This is what I want for Christmas. (Workplace-safe link)

Christmas has to be the stupidest holiday. We’re celebrating the birth of a the bastard child of a 2000-year old slut who got fucked by someone other than her husband, then was lucky enough to have her stupid husband believe her obviously fake story about some supernatural being impregnating her.

To celebrate the birth of this bastard, everyone puts up trees decorated with lights and baubles, tacky glittery streamers and blinking lights, listens to bastard-birth music, and gets together with their family to exchange gifts. Does this make any sense?