... I'm discovering my femmy-feminine side.
I mean, so, you know: what? So a girl gets complimented for wearing a green ensemble (the skirt is not 'knee-high', it's ... c.v.n.t.-high), and yes, so it goes straight to her head and so she buys a little red number, that she may or may not have in her budget, but hey, you only live once, right?
And getting a compliment?
It's like ... getting a good review of a chapter you just wrote, right, my fellow author(esse)s? You're like: nnn, well I won't tell you what you're like, because there's no describing it, you just have to experience by actually going out there, writing a chapter, and getting a good review (and then you're hooked, which is a very, very bad thing: 'reviews, my anti-drug, what's yours?')
So I won't tell you what that's like, but I will hint and say my washing machine has been receiving a lot of LUV!
(Is 'luv' an euphemism for 'soaked panties'? Just wonderin')
But I have ...
Okay, seriously now,
... I mean `phfina-seriously, of course.
But I have a question:
(quit staring at my butt, you pervs!)
Why do they put that notch back there?
'They' meaning the fashion designer.
Ever notice how fashion designers, that is, of girls' clothes, are all, predominantly ('pre' 'dominant') ... male?
Oh, you're pat answer: so a girl can walk, because she can't in a dress like that that is oh-so-tight in all the oh-so-right places.
Uh, huh, that's a pat answer.
Ready for the real answer?
I'll tell you why they put the notch, — or, dare I say: slit — back there.
Who designs these fashions, the oh-so-tight dresses with the 'supporting' corset to really make sure guys don't miss a thing?
Uh, huh: horny pervy guy architects ... I meant: fashion designers. Jeez! (but still horny and pervy).
And WHY do they design them with that slit back there?
It's not to help you so you can walk, sweetheart.
It's for the easy access.
I mean, seriously: Is this a house dress? NO! It's not a house dress. Is it a ballroom gown so a guy can press his you-know against you during the slow numbers ('numbers' meaning dance-sets, you pervs!). No. What is it?
It's a little Mad Men secretary pool dress for you to wear, so that Big Bad Mean Mr. Bossman can call you into his office as you deliver him his morning coffee, and oopsie, I just dropped my pen, Vera, would you pick that up for me?
Yessir, Mr. BigusDickus Bossman.
And then what happens?
You KNOW what happens next! But I'll spell it out for you anyway (and why I'm spelling it out I'll get to later in this post).
WHAMMO! he slams your head into his desk, and since that little slit, I mean notch, is there, all he has to do is unzip and bust through your nylons for is early morning quicky anal sex with his secretary fvckslvt because that's what you, that is: me, is for.
So you just go to work now not even wearing the nylons anymore (getting to be an expense to replace them twice a day) nor even panties.
Like I said: easy access.
Okay, so why does he bend you over the desk and anal smex you? (Warning: boring `phfina analysis ahead)
Firstly, with you bent over the desk, your fingers and toes, that is, your claws are unable to gouge out his eyes and rupture his little you-know. You're in the perfect submissive position, which only further enflames, and fans the flames, of his unleashed passions.
Slit in the back designed by guys, for guys.
Secondly, it's anal so he can avoid the paternity lawsuits or the responsibility (that is, the consequences) of having to divorce his wife and marry you and his new little jr he just put in your belly.
Child support, either way, see? Anal smex avoids all that mess. Facilitated by what?
The slit, in the back of your dress. Designed by men, for men.
Okay, so you and I (now) know the real reason that slit is back there.
So why does it stay there, then?
(And now it's 'later in the post' as I promised)
Because we want it there.
Yup. I went there.
If submissive little us, that is 'women in society' didn't accept our submissive little roles, and say, excusez-moi? when Big Bossman came at our derrières with his freed willy, but instead maced and then bobbited him (no, I'm not endorsing sexual violence nor assault from either party), then a whole lot more guys would be a whole lot more respectful of a whole lot more girls in the secretary pool.
But, the times being the times, and women being what we are told we are: that is, the fairer, weaker, submissive sex ...
We just take it.
... and look forward to it.
This was the part where I get tarred and feathered by a whole angry crowd of womyn from almost all sectors.
But yes, we tolerate in, and we even fantasize about a strong, dominate (in this male pre-dominated society) Bossman (or, whew, Bosswoman, yes, please) (I didn't just write that) (yes, I did), forcefully taking us and making us theirs.
Why?
Because when we are taken oh-so-forcefully, doesn't it mean we are desirable? Pretty?
And when we are made their bitch ... ('You're my bitch now!' he screams as willy rams and rams and rams and then releases into your anal cavity) ... doesn't being possessed like that, every day, mean we are loved?
So we buy that green number, and that demure (hot) little red number, because ... we want to be pretty, desired, and loved.
To be held by somebody else. In somebody else's arms, and have the weight of somebody else pressing down on us.
To be one, in union, with another, just for that instant, every day at work at the morning coffee and the just-before-lunch-to-work-up-the-appetite fvck.
... not that I'm talking from personal experience at all, mind you, it's just stuff I've heard, and things I've observed ...
REALLY! Honest! And I'm not protesting too much!
But to be one, so we aren't alone.
Just for that one second, not to be alone: to have somebody else fully being with you, the proof is that they are in you, and remain in you, even after they pull out, you still have the proof of that love in you, and you keep it in, clench it in your guts, so that you know you are alive, just for that one moment, and are loved, or, very sadly, were loved, for a moment in time.
That slit.
Yes, I like my new red dress very much, even though it makes me sad to think what it, that is 'me', is for.
Everything makes me sad, so that's okay.
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