Jan 102013

need-attentionI saw J this past weekend.

In the middle of a conversation about musical genres and concerts we’d attended, J mentioned my request. Before I could stop him, he told me the song title.

A few days before, I had warned him I would ask for it, but I didn’t tell him when or why. My intent was to use it as a sort of writing prompt for when I was feeling down and needed some extra attention. He’d email back with the song title and a sweet, lovely, flattering explanation that would leave me warm, fuzzy, and feeling like I’m on his mind even though he’s out of my reach.

I don’t need his attention when he’s naked and bound to the bed — I’m pretty sure I already have it. :) I don’t need warm fuzzies when he’s here — I’m too busy feeling hot and hungry.

I didn’t give it another thought (on the count of the nakedness, beating, and fucking that followed) until after he had left and I dropped… hard.

In the midst of the awfulness, it occurred to me the song might cheer me up. I could look it up, find the lyrics, and maybe it would put a dent in the slit-my-wrists drop and give me some reassurance.

And then, it also occurred to me that I forgot the fucking name of the song.

The smart thing to do would have been to call or text him and ask what it was, but in the middle of drop, I’m anything but smart. Instead of just asking, I spent hours looking for it online. I scoured his Facebook timeline to see if it was among the videos he linked. I looked up discographies of bands he likes and poured through hundreds of song titles trying to remember the band or find the title. I was sure I would recognize it if I saw it, but I came up with nothing.

By the end of a few futile hours searching, the stupid fucking song had evolved into something I was convinced would be the antidote to my feeling like a giant pile of sad-needy-girl-fail. But by the time I came to my senses (or felt so awful, I’m not sure which), it was too late to call. I wasn’t about to wake him up for a fucking song title. That would be pathetic.

I sent an email instead, because that’s less pathetic, right?





  11 Responses to “step 3: fail”

  1. While I realize this is not the point of your post, I’m thrilled to know that I’m not the only one with die-together-during-bondage-sex-in-the-nursing-home plans.

  2. The girl in that picture looks like she might be a young Republican. You can tell by the vacant smile and stalker stare.

  3. *sits on edge of seat*

  4. OMG! You had me here! Funny, sweet, silly and scary at the same time!

    So what was the title of the song?

  5. I saw the email on Fet first and immediately wanted to compare you to OAG, but apparently you got their first. For what it’s worth, an completely obsessive dominant sounds marvelous to me.

    • @Peroxide: Sure, as long as she doesn’t burn your house down. :) Not that I’d actually do that… seriously… okay maybe….

  6. D, I can’t possibly convey in words how much I love you. You make me laugh. You make me cry. And if you ever forget about me, I’ll burn your fucking house down. (while sipping a jack and coke. because I’m classy)

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