Blood and Boredom

Being that today is a day in, a day of boredom, and a day where I am bleeding out the vagina and therefore not terribly pleased with being female, I figure I need to make a nice, long, passionate entry here. Something to lift my spirits.

So first, an update. Boyfriend and I went to the VNV Nation show on Friday night - I have just realized that mentioning both name and date will give away my location, but being as you don't know my name, his name, or anyones names, you would have to try to rely on going to the club it was at and asking a lot of people in order to find me. Being that only two people I know personally have the link to this blog, one of them being my best friend, the other being a close personal friend, neither of them are likely to just point a stranger to the real identity of 'Gypsy'.

Maybe you could put two and two together if I mentioned my fishnets, my skirts and specifically the jingle skirt I occasionally don, accentuating the motions of my hips, the motions taught to me by an aggravating teacher who refused to accept that the tendons in my arms and legs are tight, a fact that makes even walking flat on my feet uncomfortable at best, impossible most of the time, and at worst, downright hazardous. I walk more easily in stiletto heels with a height of at least three inches than I do in ballet flats, and dance just as well - Although bouncing up and down has its hazards no matter what footwear I'm wearing, seeing as although my abilities to walk and dance are marvelous, anything that involves either stillness or landing in the same spot turn on my lack of balance. You may recognize a velvet tank, or my happy cuddled spot against the chest of a tall fishnet-shirted man-boy, legal, but not THAT masculine.

I have a distinct hatred for the overly-masculine, and a distaste for the overly-feminine, and in fact have a very specific type when it comes to bodies - Taller than me, not a difficult thing. Somewhat muscled, but not Steroid Boy. I'm not overly picky about hair colour but do seem to tend towards the blonds and boys with dark, dark brown hair, not quite black, but dark, dark brown. Facial hair is always a bonus, I like to play with it. A gothic appeal is a necessity, tattoos are a bonus that I will obsess over and I'll toy with a piercing for hours. Makeup has to be done well, but when it is, I'll be dying to mess it up in the sheets.

How well does my darling fit?

He is the very epitome of the body I like, tall and semi-muscular, blond hair that I enjoy messing up, a blond goatee that he refers to as a Satan stache and I can toy with for hours. He definitely has a gothic appeal, and has as much love for fishnet as I do, which means I may have to protect my pink and black stockings.

And yes, I do mess up his makeup in the sheets with awesome regularity, and he returns the favour to my own elaborate facial decor.

I am nearly tempted to wax poetic about his cock, but I already did that. *Chuckle* And such repetition so close to the original isn't my style.

But anyhow. We were just getting down and dirty in bed after the concert, my parents having enough respect for all of us to set us up a bed in the basement. We get a few minutes in to some good, hard sex, and I stop him. We're in the total dark. He asks what's wrong.

A few sniffs of the air - 'Is it just me, or do you smell blood too?'.

It wasn't just me.

And, well, we were on white sheets that my mother would be seeing, so we did the prudent, not-disgusting-my-parents thing - We called off sex for the night, cleaned up, and cuddled up to sleep. I was most annoyed, but whatever. Out of it, though, came the declaration that we won't have any light-coloured bedding on our own bed.

And when we move to the coast, we better get somewhere with dark carpeting too.

It's bad enough that what used to be three-day events that tapered off on the last day are turning into uterine massacres with tidal waves of blood washing out...No end in sight...

MUST IT RUIN MY SEX LIFE?!?