Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life and mourn the death of She’s sex life…but, more on that later. First, we must do the polite thing and introduce ourselves!
My name is She, and I have just moved to the BIG CITY! (London, not New York. We’ve all got to start somewhere, right?) I have but a mere £200 in the bank and dreams that bust through these paper thin walls and beyond. Ah, brazen youth. I can almost taste it…throw caution in the face of student debt!
Who am I? What a difficult question you ask…but let’s summarise. I am an (almost) 23 year old aspiring miniature ballerina, a submissive turned domme and a psychologist in the making, in no particular order. I’m also probably one of the tiniest people you’ll never meet (a petite 151cm tall) and a bred housewife (thanks Mom).
So…London. Where to begin…let’s start with the house. Three weeks ago, I moved in with the boyfriend of six years. Big step. Wrong step? Who knows? Anyway, it’s a lovely place, overlooking a lovely canal with two lovely squirrels that like to crack nuts on our balcony doors. This creates the most god-awful racket. The noise had me reaching for my table lamp the first time it happened, but I do love them so. I’ve named them Bob and Trisky.
Downside? The bored housewife in me does the cleaning and I must say, although I do take pride in a spotless domicile, I also fear I’m turning into my mother. Upside? There are as many similarities as there are differences (hide the wooden spoons, mother!) so all hope isn’t lost, even though the boyfriend seems to believe the house is self-cleaning.
The boyfriend. A respectable chap, ten years my senior. My biggest fear? Turning into a trophy/desperate housewife. It is very much looking to be a reality that I am quite resigned to, though desperate to escape from at the same time. But perhaps I shall dedicate some thoughts to this man to another day. This first post is mine alone.
This brings us neatly to the beginning. The sex drive? Dead as of 47 days ago. This is unheard of! A travesty as much a tragedy for my filthy paws and dirty mind. I’m attributing it to the stress of moving house, a job where people keep dying and a boyfriend who is much too vanilla for my taste but is, as they say, a familiar flavour. Regardless, neither do I want the women in my black book, so deep runs my apathy towards desire.
Ah, so many excuses for a lack of lust…if only I knew what the real reason was. If only I knew why it has not come back. Let’s wait and see, shall we? For I shall move to unravel this mystery. That or pray, sex drive, sex drive, come back to me.
In the time being, let us explore London. What better reason for a blog? Welcome to my world. Walk with me, for the streets of London await our presence.
