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Not long ago I attended what might best be called an adult party. Adults attended. They wore adult attire. They sipped (or chugged) adult drinks (except for me, as I try to keep my wits about me). They played decidedly adult games, at times with adult toys.
We all clear on this?
I enjoying giving foot massages, so at one point in the course of the evening I pulled out a bottle of massage oil and made flirty eyes at a willing friend. After I worked my magic over her feet, she volunteered to do the same for mine.
Full-body relaxation is absolutely necessary for me to enjoy a foot massage, so I laid back on a convenient bed. My masseuse was at my feet (duh, obviously) and several additional party-goers were sitting around the room enjoying the fun.
I get bossy at times like these (only at times like these, ha, I can hear some of you thinking), so I immediately demanded hand massages from the two people closest to my hands. They complied. Mr. Right Hand gave me a lovely hand massage that, combined with the foot massage, made me purr with contentment.
Mr. Left Hand, on the other hand (heh) decided that the pleasure of massaging my hand was not sufficient for him. He began by massaging my hand, but soon, like a teenage boy, he got a bad case of Roman Fingers. He massaged up my forearm. He massaged up my upper arm.
He tried to massage my breast, but a sly block out of my old martial arts repertoire and a giggly refusal made him back off. For a moment. Then his hands wandered down to my thigh.
“Hand!” I told him, still giggling. “You are massaging my hand. Just my hand.”
The other people around me laughed too. Mr. Left Hand laughed along with us, but two minutes later his hands wandered again. Once again I steered him back to my hand, with less of a laugh this time. But still a laugh.
Soon enough my foot massage was over. The crowd shifted and Mr. Left Hand moved off, much to my relief. I found out after the party ended that he’d bothered other female guests that night, not just me.
This little episode came back into my head later, after I’d come down from the sex high I acquired that evening with my friend. It came back into my head, and I got pissed off. Big time.
At myself.
Why the hell did I NOT sit up, look Mr. Left Hand straight in the eye and say, “What is your problem, dude? I said you could massage my hand, NOT the rest of me! Get it together!”
But I didn’t. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I was surrounded by my friends — people who would have supported me without hesitation — and still I didn’t make a fuss.
One of these days I’m going to grow some balls, some big hanging swinging bouncing balls, and I’m going to think of the perfect thing to say at exactly the right moment, not days later.
Someday soon.

Monet Lingerie, Sexy Lingerie and Stiletto Heels
