Dom S.O.S.

I was in social party Hell this weekend. Someone at where my wife works was having a party and we were invited. It was held at a nice Atlanta restaurant where over 30 people crammed inside a party room trying to talk over each other. The noise level amazed me as these people would scream to have themselves heard. Obviously what they had to say was incredibly important right? No.

I have come to the sad fact that people my age like to talk about three things: Their jobs, their pets or their children. I would give up porn for three months if I could make it to 2007 without hearing another story about how some animal I have never met did something darling. Round and round in circles people try to outdo each other in dog, cat, boss or children stories. This happens at BDSM munches too believe it or not but if you try hard enough, you can steer the conversation back to spanking and blowjobs. Here in social party Hell though, the best you can hope for is the waiter interrupting for a few glorious seconds before you hear the thrilling conclusion to “My son wore sunglasses and he’s only three!”

I am not saying these people were boring. I’m just saying I was bored. I wanted to be home writing as I am working on another Librarian story that seems to be taking forever. Every story about a dog that got stuck under the couch just seems like a wasted moment of writing.

Someone’s cell phone rang and that is when I started to pray that mine would ring. Then I started to think pro-actively. Maybe I should call someone. No, it’s too loud to talk on the phone. Maybe I should text message someone? Maybe I should send out a nasty command to someone who might at on it. The though occurred to me that maybe Wesley wasn’t a BDSM mastermind, but he just went to a lot of boring parties.

The more I thought about it, the more I liked to the idea of sending out a Dom S.O.S. I started to think of my kinky friends who would respond well to such an out of the blue request. I thought I should send it to all of them. Like some sort of perverse Bat-signal, my cell phone could send out the call to sexy women across the country to reach into their panties and masturbate ten strokes for me. Out loud.

As the person sitting next to me tells me a hilarious story about the time their kid AND the dog threw up, I could instead be listening for the faint sounds of a woman somewhere saying, “One . . .two . . .three . . .”