"Love Nest" RIP

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Mistress and Slave had one of those rare days Sunday when we had nothing of consequence to do but entertain one another: I had covered the trip to my cranky Mother’s house in Saturday; My daughter and her grandsons cancelled on their visit for Sunday dinner; Mistress’s mother was off on another exotic excursion; and even the NFL schedule co-operated. The Pussycats had lost in “that only happens to the Pussycats” style on Thursday night (A safety in OT! WTF!) , giving fans their on bye Sunday.

Rest assured we put our free day to good use: Wake-up sex; a bike ride; Mistress whipped up breakfast; some yard work for me; then an entertaining Indie movie downloaded on I-Tunes, snuggled together on the couch. 

At some point, after the ride, Mistress appeared in some foxy nighties – just panties and a matching top – and asked if I minded her wearing such skimpy attire for the rest of the day.

“What Slave would object to that, Mistress?”

By the end of out first movie,  it was only 3:30 pm or so.

“How about sex and a nap, Mistress?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Slave.”

After adjourning to the UCTMW executive suite for a suitable respite,  Slave gathered his strength and grilled some Salmon. Mistress whipped up some of her patented acorn squash, loaded with a confection of brown sugar and walnuts that is to die for. And we watched yet another cute indie movie about a young London married couple destined to be with other lovers by the end of the reel, called “I Give It A Year.”

Cute.

Our day huddled together, the rest of the world shut away,  reminded me a bit of our “Love Nest” days, memories also dredged up by yesterday’s Maureen Dowd column in the Times: From Love Nest to Desire Surveilance

She focuses on the revived 1980's Pinter play “Betrayal” - about a love triangle in which a married woman and her husband’s friend have a secret apartment for their trysting - and ties it to revelations from the trial of Rupert Murdoch’s minions in London, who were carrying on their own secret affair while tapping the cell phones of celebrity philanderers.

The point she makes is that with our advanced communications technology, it’s almost impossible to carry on a proper (or should I say improper) clandestine affair these days.

Instead of a second address, modern philanderers are more likely to have a second phone. Love nests seem archaic, given how physical erotics have been somewhat displaced by digital erotics.

We virtually have another N.S.A., the National Sex Agency, given all the desire surveillance technology and the manic collection of preliminary information about conceivable partners.

The extension of information obsession to the field of intimacy — which is the slow revelation of one person to another — ruins the mystery, poetry and suspense. Instead of caressing, there’s posting; instead of kissing, there’s forwarding, sharing and sending.

A love nest also figures prominently in the new memoir “Johnny Carson,” by the comedian’s old lawyer and carousing buddy, Henry Bushkin. The Bombastic Bushkin, as he became known in Johnny’s monologues, first meets Carson in 1970, when he joins a stealthy team breaking into the East Side “snuggery” of the star’s second wife, Joanne.

After Carson, wearing a .38 revolver on his hip, got into the apartment, thanks to a bribe, he discovered scattered lingerie and other “evidence of his cuckoldry,” as Bushkin wrote.

“The whole living room, in fact, almost the entire pad — was furnished with discards from the couple’s UN Plaza apartment,” Bushkin recalled. “There were even some pieces Johnny hadn’t realized were gone.”

Carson confirmed the identity of the man he sneeringly called Joanne’s “Prince Charming” in the most low-tech way possible: there were six or seven framed photographs of sportscaster and former New York Giants star Frank Gifford.

I guess there’s one more reason for me to admire my boyhood Giants hero.

One dictionary defines "Love Nest" as "a place (such as an apartment) used for amorous and often illicit rendezvous". The first recorded use of the term in the United States was in 1919. I guess those dough boys picked up a few tricks "over there".

When Mistress and Slave first “hooked up” back in the age of Dukakis and “A thousand points of light”, we quickly found our own “love nest”, a cozy efficiency apartment a few blocks from my downtown office. We’d meet maybe twice a week – a long lunch hour, or a Sunday morning when we both told our spouses we were catching up on office work – for some hot and illicit sex on the futon we had found at Pier One. A bit like the "Joanne and Frank” nest that Johnny discovered, we had purloined some furnishings that would not be missed from home. A few plates and glassware, Mistress’s candles, some linens, a chair. Nothing fancy. And of course some “toys” to play a few bondage games.

(Those Pier One futon platforms have lots of handy lashing points!)

We had our own “love nest” for about three years before we pulled the plugs on our first marriages, and moved in together into a house we rented, while awaiting the arrival of  our now cute Co-Ed, who turned 21 last spring.

Looking back, there’s no way we could get away with that sort of thing with today’s devices making it so easy to track a straying spouse down. Our wife/husband would be all over us via cell phone or text message wanting to know where we were, what we were doing, and when we’d be home. And who needs to go to work on a Sunday anyway, when your "desktop" is so portable? Even worse,  the errant text or email from a “side dish” can quickly become incriminating evidence these days.

No we were from the last generation that could leave the house or office and be - as a practical matter - on our own remote island for a few hours.

Mistress mentioned that one of her Cougar Week lovers – confused about the whole “permission” thing – had asked her whether it wouldn’t be more fun to “just cheat”…. i.e. “Don’t let Mick in on it.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble when you already have a contractual right to stray, Mistress.”

“That’s what I said, Slave….”

It may be that for a while the “secret” can make an affair a tad hotter. But over the long term it’s corrosive. And, as Ed Snowden has reminded us from freedom loving Moscow, secrets just aren’t what they used to be.

Turquoise Undie Karma

The other day Sin posted about a particularly smutty "encounter" with her far-a-way Dom that had an evocative line about her jeans and turquoise panties being down around her legs as she squirmed out a cum on command. For some reason that particular detail made it seem all the more real. And kind of hot, if I must confess.

I don't think Mistress read that entry. But lo and behold, when she arrived at my office on Thursday morning, for a little Mick-therapy,  she removed one of her black pants legs to give me free grazing range and revealed a skimpy turquoise thong:

After giving those clean shaven folds the attention they deserved, and with those musky fluids still clinging to my chops, I had to take a picture to establish this odd karmic coincidence. Which of course gets me back to nagging Sin about why she never shares comparable images.... for verisimilitude of course. Is it because "Big Bad" does not authorize? Maybe if he reads this, he will reconsider and give clearer directions.

Of course, it was Halloween yesterday. I don't go to a workplace where folks costume up for this most commercial of all holidays. But Mistress used to work at a place where there are a lot of creative types, who relish that sort of thing. She left there in late August, to re-launch her own business, but apparently she remains a legend.

Yesterday on facebook she found  a cute photo of three young 20 somethings from her former staff -- all dressed like Mistress. Apparently it was Molly Collins tribute day.

One was "SW Molly", in tie-dye, with a hairband, holding a colorful mug from our little get-a-way town she had gifted all of them. Another was "political Molly", with black sleeveless dress, black tights, colorful scarf, and turquoise jewelry, like she often wears, and holding an Obama sign. The third was "Client facing" Molly, with a more conservative look, black tights and black dress, turquoise jewelry and turquoise sweater.  All had the sort of wild, curly long dark hair that Mistress remains famous for.

Very cute.

"can you believe they did that, Slave?"

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,  Mistress."

But I had to wonder --- did they remember the turquoise thongs?

Blazing Paddles!

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Science Wednesday: It's In Her Kiss

As you can see from today's illustration, Mistress elected the boots and bare legs look yesterday when she ventured downtown for some work meetings.

"It was supposed to hit 60 today, Slave....that's too hot for tights."

But she acknowledged that it seemed a little colder than that for mid-afternoon.

"I notice that some of the ladies here have them on Slave...."

SHe gave me a hard time when I confessed I had noticed as well. You can't teach an old Slave new tricks, I suppose. And where's the harm in being "observant"?

Mistress camped out in my office for a good part of the afternoon, since we had plans to meet an old friend after work for a drink at a nearby bar. It's one of those things you can do spontaneously with an empty nest. And we enjoyed trading stories and speculating about an upcoming election with him, a former local poobah, and the other self-important political figures slumming at this particular  bar last night.

Of course, before we ventured out, Mistress received the sort of attention from my lips and tongue that she has become accustomed to. I wonder if the politicians we pal-ed around with last night could detect the musky juices that no doubt clung to my cheeks and chin as we bellied up to the bar? No, they were probably more focused on flirting with Mistress than any detritus in my 6 pm shadow.

But today's entry is not about randy politicians. I'm focused instead on a scientific study derived from an on-line survey about the role of kissing in our contemporary mating practices, courtesy of yesterday's Times. Here's the link :Now a Kiss Isn't Just a Kiss.

It seems that not all of us use kissing for the same purpose:

The participants generally rated kissing in casual relationships as most important before sex, less important during sex, even less important after sex and least important “at other times.” (To clarify: researchers defined kissing as “on the lips or open-mouth (French).”)

Past research has shown that three types of people tend to be choosier in selecting mates who are genetically fit and compatible: women, those who rate themselves highly attractive, and those favoring casual sex. In this study, these people said that kissing was important mostly at the start of a relationship.

That may be because for these individuals, kissing turns out to be a quick, easy way to sample a partner’s suitability — a subconscious stop-go light. For them, “The Shoop Shoop Song (It’s in His Kiss)” might not be far off the mark.

After that first kiss, these types are much more likely than other subjects to change their minds about a potential partner, researchers found. If it’s not in his kiss, forget about him.

But other people might use different criteria to size up their mates: men, those who rate themselves as less sexually attractive, and people looking for commitment. In the grand search for a partner, these individuals screen for people who seem to have the inclination and resources for the long haul. And for them, this study showed, kissing has a lower priority at the beginning of dating.

Particularly for men and women looking for long-term relationships, kissing serves other purposes, like relationship upkeep. They would use their orbicularis oris muscle to mediate, ameliorate and sustain their connections. They rated kissing equally important before sex and at “other times not related to sex.” For these participants, kissing was least important during sex.

So it seems that a woman who sees herself as attractive, and is open to a casual fling might use kissing as a critical way to do a quick inventory on the liklihood of potential partner's compatibility. You're hot, or you're not, based on that first kiss. Blow that chance and it's to the back of the line for you, dude.

A woman more interested in a long term relationship, or who might consider herself a little less attractive, wouldn't view that first kiss as critical as whether her potential partner's American Express card is Gold, Silver, or Platinum.

It got me thinking about my first kiss with Mistress. Actually, I had tried to muster the courage a few times, after we had come together as volunteers on a political campaign. For a while she dodged my clumsy advances in a way that made me think she did not even consider me in that way. (Since we were married to different people at the time, this might have been a very natural reaction on her part to the flirtations of some older guy.)

The break through came one day in my office, a meeting she took the initiative to set up. I should have known once that meeting concluded with a kiss  that my fate was sealed, and that it was just a matter of time before I would become her abject Slave.  

But I suppose I am a slow learner. 

In any event, I am eternally grateful that I seemed to pass that initial screening. It was just a matter of days before I was where I was forever destined to be: my face buried between those delicious thighs, accumulating musky juices on my late afternoon shadow.

That "kiss" must have passed her discerning standards as well.