He asked if we were turning vanilla. Not that there’s anything wrong with vanilla, because there’s not. I happen to like it. A lot, actually. I like vanilla icing and vanilla cake too. Ooooh, and vanilla lattes are the bomb. But in terms of sex, vanilla just doesn’t work for me. I relate it to unhappy times in my life which was why Mr. K’s question during a recent text conversation put me on high alert. His words were unexpected and jarring, and because I was a glass-half-empty kind of girl, I immediately assumed the worst. White-hot panic shot through me as I lay in my bed one hundred forty-something miles from him, my mind racing to understand why he would say such a thing. Was he growing tired of me? Was he falling out of love? Did the things he once loved now make him YAWN?
“Nooooo! Why??” I replied. If I’d spoken the words aloud, my voice would have been unnaturally shrill, because helloooo–panic.
“Toys. We used no toys.”
The words glared at me rudely, and I glared back. And in the midst of our showdown, I began to wonder if the horrid heat radiating from my core wasn’t panic but a hot flash instead. Fucking hormones… He was right, though. Other than my butt plug, which I ALWAYS wear for him, our toys remained untouched during our last three visits. The simple truth was that time didn’t always allow for toys, and there were occasions when kinky hotness strayed from a planned scene, taking on a life of its own.
For example: Mr. K wanted face-sitting, pegging, and spanking during one of the visits in question, but he arrived feeling super dominant, and that turned me all kinds of inside out. Then there was our last visit, which was…well, see, there was this really BIG mirror and a camera phone, and lots of fucking. Then Mr. K pushed my legs open while I sat on the toilet, licking my pussy after I peed. Oh, and there was more fucking. A lot of it. So yeah, toys never entered my mind. But does mean we’re vanilla-fying (totally a word)? Fuck no.
Mr. K and I went at it hard during the first months of our relationship. Not a second of our time together was wasted, and we used every toy in our arsenal. We rode the high of finding another to whom we could express our kinky desires without fear of judgement, and we slept very little. But in my opinion, playing with toys didn’t make us kinky. It’s the way we’re wired; the way we think.
If you think about licking your girlfriend’s sweat from the crack of her ass after she works out, you might be a kinkster. Or, if you call Home Depot ‘Dom’ Depot, you might be a kinkster.
Move the fuck over, Jeff Foxworthy. I’ve got this.
My point is, we see a lot of things in a different light. And the beauty of kink is there are many degrees and no qualifying guidelines. If a person considers themselves kinky because they like their hair pulled during sex, then by God, they’re kinky. Nowhere does it state a person must wield a flogger for X number of hours before the title of kinkster is granted. Again, toys don’t make the kinkster; the kinkster makes the toys. Or something like that.
I didn’t hear from Mr. K again that day until early afternoon, and by that time, I’d run a million errands, overreacted, and freaked out accordingly. I was prepared to hear discontent in his voice, and concern that our sex life was growing stale. But to my surprise, there was no disappointing tone, and he wasn’t dissatisfied. He was happy. And he agreed that we don’t always need to play with toys. “It feels good just as us,” he said. “It just does.”
“So you don’t think we’re turning vanilla?”
He laughed. “Hell no. That was a joke.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
Heh. Isn’t it funny how the word ‘vanilla’ can throw a kinkster into a tailspin? No, it’s not. Not at all.
