Public and Private

One of my favourite things is going out in public with my Master and Princess knowing that no one would ever guess on first glance at the dynamic. We look like three friends out for a drink with the married couple making sure they don’t forget their single friends these days.

I love that those assumptions allow a lot of hiding in plain sight. Nights in the pub with mutual friends with Sir sending me and Princess into the toilets to make each other come while his mate goes to the bar. Princess kissing me while we nip to the bar on our round and everyone is preoccupied with pub talk.

Then there’s the balance between my Master behaving like the well mannered man he is  to bar or wait staff but still very obviously staring at the slutty outfit I picked specially to catch his eye. It amuses me that anyone noticing his eyes on my tits or thigh high boots would think we’re behaving badly in front of his poor unsuspecting innocent wife.

Because who would guess that his wife is far from innocent and loves watching us being sexual with each other? That’s part of the joy of people not knowing much about relationships with three people in them. No expectations give a certain amount of freedom.

I particularly enjoyed that freedom the other weekend when my Master suggested we go out for dinner while I was wearing a rather sheer top that showed my pierced nipples more than is probably acceptable on a quiet Sunday night out. And the table next to us certainly spotted them.

As we ordered cocktails and chatted about cunt, I enjoyed watching her glare and him stare. I almost felt sorry for her being so defensive of Princess as she side eyed me and my Master in equal measure in between making obviously comment to her boyfriend what an awful husband stealing slut I was.

He was so busy making agreeing with her and making sure she couldn’t see him double checking just how slutty my nipples were being that neither of them spotted me running my hand up and down Princess’s bare leg under the table and her squirming in her seat in response. I only wish I’d read this ridiculously hot post about private touching in public places before then.

I’m not sure if they’d have been more shocked by sitting next to that than they were when my Master went to pay the bill and Princess turned and kissed me just as we were leaving. I did enjoy hiding behind my nipples for once…

Public and Private


A little intellectual rigour for the Bank Holiday for you with this fantastic podcast on femme identity and how that is received in society. I listened to it today while doing some washing up and I’m sure there can’t be that many people who’ve had a personal breakthrough while washing a mug but this did that for me.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I considered myself straight before I met my Master and Princess and he often teases me how well I’ve taken to lesbianism. I had quite honestly never questioned the gender of the people I wanted to fuck before I met Princess and so much of queerness seems to be about that sense of not knowing who you were. So if I’d never doubted my love of dick, I must be straight right?

But I have from as long as I remember agonised over my identity of how I come across to people. Instinctually from early childhood I loved traditionally feminine things like make up but hated wearing the ‘good frocks’ and patent shoes I was put in for the equivalent of Sunday best.

My favourite outfit as a five year old was a pair of knickerbockers and I wanted to combine the best bits of tomboyishness like running around or being around horses with painting my nails. At eighteen I chopped all my hair off and it felt like finding myself even though I did it so I could fuck my (very handsome) hairdresser. I’ve never grown it out again in the next two decades.

80% of me loved standing out by never shaking that girly-tomboy mix off with my shaved head, perfect painted nails, eyeliner to next week, sluttiness and pairs of shorts. But the other 20% felt like I was failing at being a woman.

‘Real’ women had long blonde hair and wore knee length skirts and red lipstick and ‘no make up’ make up that looked natural. They wore high heels and floral prints and dated suitable men. And they were rewarded for it by not catcalled all the time in the street or told they were beautiful and grown up.

Any time I tried to be more like those women, I felt miserable as sin and simply unable to do it. Without my eyeliner I felt like a wall of bare plaster. When I wore heels, they were never kitten heels (I once left a pair in a cab in Glasgow no less) but four inch high gold knee boots and my skirts barely grazed my arse.

I had a job dressing other women to look ‘nice’ and stereotypically feminine and gave up it up to teach men how to wear make up, work on a gay fetish magazine and spend my time with drag queens. I just assumed I was very bad at being a grown up and having responsibilities.

And then listening to that podcast I realised that I just didn’t know I was femme and without knowing about the queer identity of femmeness, I couldn’t even think about not being straight. Slow learner as per usual.

I’d been fascinated by women for years in their femmeness and femininity and thought it was just their outfits I liked but I realised that all the women I feel some kind of pull towards are tend to me those femme women (and most of my male friends tend to be very in touch with their feminine side.)

I love to look at women with short boyish hair with heavy make up or wearing a suit with nothing underneath. I like men in tights and eyeliner. The two tie together and this identity I couldn’t outrun but felt wasn’t ‘normal’ linked the two. And finally hearing that validation of femme on that podcast made my lack of straightness make more sense than fucking Princess does in some ways.

It might be a weird way to reassess yourself but it made even more sense when I spent the evening having dinner with my Master and Princess and watching ‘But I’m a Cheerleader‘ and discovering all those close intense female friendships I had until now lacked one thing. And it wasn’t my abandoned vegetarianism…