Being a sex blogger exposed and introduces you to a vast array of lifestyles – some to be embraced with open arms, some to be intrigued with and some to avoid at all costs. It all depends on one’s tastes and proclivities. The most beautiful thing I’ve found since I began this journey is how wonderfully accepting, nurturing and empowering this community is. I’ve met some people, both in person and on-screen that have literally changed my entire outlook on life.
And of course, not one of the people that I’ve gotten to know a bit better have failed to surprise me on closer inspection. What we portray online is a far cry from what we are in actuality. The sexual personas are only a certain facet of our beings. I know this.
So I must confess, the other day I was guilty of making some gross assumptions and generalizations in my head, and I deserve to be thoroughly punished for it. I refer of course to the Fetlife meet up that I “observed.” Observed but didn’t engage in. I spent $1.34 for a tea at Timmie’s and sat a few tables away from the action. Close enough to observe, and hear a bit – but still removed and relatively unobtrusive.
I had recently joined Fetlife and was soon approached by a very polite man-child. We exchanged messages that day and he mentioned that there was to be a casual coffee that evening. I was surprised by the location, as well as how early it was scheduled for. Perhaps to give people the opportunity to hook up and spend an enjoyable several hours together afterwards? There was only one way to find out.
Of course, being female my first dilemma of course was: what do I wear? If this get together was at a darkly lit lounge I probably would have debated less – but a fluorescent coffee shop?? I chose the subtly sexy – a bustier with velvet jacket, tight jeans and stiletto boots.
I was ridiculous.
I saw people in fleeces and t-shirts and in clothes that I wear when sitting at home on my couch.
But let’s go back a bit. I walked in and saw a large group of people sitting on one side of the place. In case no one has been in a Tim Horton’s – they’re not large. It was pretty obvious that this was the group. They all looked so…normal, with a wide range of ages. I felt like a girl playing dress up in my heels, lipstick and cleavage.
I saw the person who had invited me walk in, order, and then walk out. I was puzzled. He certainly looked like the person from the photograph…
I burnt my tongue on my tea and wondered what to do next. I felt particularly intrusive as I would glance their way, then write furiously in my journal (Aurore has seen and been amused by the journal – it comes with me everywhere I go…). I was annoyed that the two giggling girls behind me were foiling my attempts at eavesdropping.
One almost could mistake the group for an oddly located family gathering, except you could feel their anticipation as they kept glancing expectantly at the door. I felt that there should have been a “FetLife” sign posted, proclaiming that all were welcome. But I wasn’t sure that all were welcome. It seemed to be a very insular group – not exactly issuing a welcoming vibe.
Ah, my inviter came back. Young looking. Possibly shy and insecure. Maybe now the party would get started? Possibly not. He sat in the least approachable corner available, surrounded by what seemed like dozens of people.
I began to console myself with the fact that I still had the anticipation of rolling up the rim to soothe me. Alas – “please try again.”
On that note I chose to leave. Perhaps I would have approached them if anyone in the group particularly piqued my interest, but it simply didn’t appear to be my scene. Shyness? Maybe. Snobbishness? Probably.
I laughed at myself on the way home for my own foolish assumptions about the evening. What did I expect?A bunch of goth-types making out and fondling each other in public? Women wearing PVC and stockings? Men in leather and dog collars?
Yes to all. And I confess, I was a bit disappointed with the mundane-ness of it all. I suspect I should try the fetish ball in June. That may be a bit more likely to fulfill my ridiculously clichéd expectations.