Munching.

I've gone to a couple munches here in Boston and they have been pretty good. There's always people you don't like, that's inevitable whenever you meet a lot of new people, but the vast majority of munchers have given me the feeling "wow, I'd want to hang out with these people even if they weren't into weird sex."

This is in contrast to Seattle munches, which--maybe I picked the wrong ones, maybe I didn't present myself well, maybe I've just hit a streak of luck here--sucked ass. They came in two flavors, cliqueish ("You can't sit there, my friends are sitting there. ...You can't sit there either.") and intrusive ("HELLO FRESH MEAT!"). I found myself either desperate for any attention, or fending off overbearing attention.

Particularly the second. Cliquishness happens sometimes, lots of kinksters are socially awkward and I'm one of them, it's dissuading but not offensive. But I went to a couple of munches where the instant I was in the door, someone was cornering me and demanding to know my orientation, role, what I was into, and am I interested in playing with them. People were asking about my vagina before they'd asked my name.

It's kind of a weird thing, because on the one hand, I do want to find play and sex partners, and that is some of my motivation for attending munches. As I've often said myself, this ain't doubles tennis. So maybe it's dumb to complain about people wanting to get in my pants? But I prefer people to have a little tact in these matters. Call me totally irrational and hypocritical, but I'm more inclined to take my pants off for someone who doesn't use "wanna take your pants off?" as an opening line. Although actually that would be awesome.



Maybe it's just that if you want to fuck me before we've barely spoken, I get the feeling that a microwaved papaya would serve your needs equally well. (Wait, this is kink. A microwaved papaya that can say "ow.") As I grow ever more old and cautious and vain, I aspire to feel like I'm more special than a papaya.

Princess complex, I know.