Warning: This post, whilst safe for work and not really containing any kink in itself, may be TMI for some people. AYOR, etc.

A munch is a casual lunch or dinner with other local people who have an interest or experience in BDSM (Bondage & Discipline, Dominance and submission, sadomasochism) and/or Fetish. Munch groups have many different characters depending on locations of where they meet. Some are held in locations where a demonstration can be given on different techniques, but most are held in family restaurants or bars where 'play' or fetishwear is not permitted. A munch is a great atmosphere to meet like minded locals, discuss a variety of topics, and make friends and get validation without people behaving 'in role'. [ref]

So on Tuesday night I popped along to a pub nearby – yes, a pub, I know, but since drinking wasn't going to be the main focus of the evening I guessed it would be okay – where about twenty people gathered for the monthly "munch" for the area.

I'd sort of flagged up my upcoming attendance on a forum, so that they knew to expect a long-haired bloke in a Simpsons T-shirt [note; as in the definition above, dress code is "vanilla", otherwise I might have...]

There were a few characters who immediately recognized me and took me under their wing, introducing me to whoever was there, telling me what was to be happening, letting me into their group. One [lovely] surprise was meeting *name removed* from the site beginning with "O" which we do not name any more, who I'd exchanged mails with over there. You know how it is when someone off El Interwebz suddenly turns up in your 'meatspace' – "OMG, SQUEE!"

Everyone gathered in an upstairs room, away from the pub's [two] other customers. [It was a *very* wet Tuesday night.] The night had been advertised as having a workshop on "needle play" – not my cup of tea, I must add – though this turned out to be a workshop on safety in general in play, with information on the risks of sharing of fluids of various kinds.

Afterwards was scones and general chatter. There was a core of about four or five people in the room who I felt immediately comfortable with, and I generally went round and shook hands to introduce myself with everybody. There was no "play" – well, okay, one woman took a quick flogging – and the only way you'd distinguish it from any other social meeting would be a] slightly more black worn, and b] the collars on the "owned" subs.

It'll take some time to work out the group dynamics as a whole, and to get used to the "etiquette" of such a gathering, but that is broadly true of all social gatherings. [Tries not to engage social worker mode and go off into 'group theory'.]

It seemed to me that although there may be an inner core of "scene" which would be difficult to make one's way into even if one wanted to – and I'm not sure if I do, my interests in this area are "play" recreational rather than "lifestyle" or "scene" – it's supposed to be fun, for smeg's sake – certainly there was an overall group ethos which was open and accepting. And certainly a few women who enjoy playing with the long hair of certain men.

In the end, these things are about expectations. I went there hoping to meet some nice people who just happened to have an interest in kinky things, and that's what I got. If I'd turned up expecting to immediately force my way into being able to whack someone's hide raw, or to be suddenly King/Queen/Princess Of The Group, I'd've been disappointed – and quite rightly so.

So on the level in which I was operating, I was very pleased with myself on the night, in the way I interacted, the people I've met, and the pleasant chat I was part of. [Oh yeah, plus the bonus of "I spent three hours in a pub without once wanting to drink it dry".]

I'll be back there next month.

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Slightly related, but not really, pic:

If it hadn't been "vanilla dress code"…

Snow Day.

[Well, snow nights if you want to be pedantic, given that it was yesterday evening I was due to work, but told not to bother trying to drive in.]

I haz new shoes, courtesy of my good friends S & C, thus -

- so it's unlikely I'll be venturing out for the rest of the day…

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Also in the post the other day, courtesy of the ubergorgeous Zo;

The art of the euphemism, along with that of the innuendo, are the parts of my language I've always most enjoyed – particularly, of course, if one can combine the two for scatological effect.

Much of this love for the coarser end of the language comes from childhood heroes like Kenneth Williams, himself a master at the loaded phrase.

It's also part of a reaction against the London culture I grew up with, which eschewed euphemism in favour of direct – usually over-direct – speech, loaded with terms the late Mrs Whitehouse would have had a heart attack over.

In my teenage years, it soon became apparent that in this context swearing lost its meaning through mindless repetition [kind of like that famous version of an Alexei Sayle song [warning: serious swearing on this link]] and that the best way to make an impact was to invent a suitable euphemism instead; the best contribution I made to my peers' language was how going for a shit became having an Ivana [rhyming slang, trump -> dump].

I doubt that one appears in this volume – and its publication date of 2000 means it'll miss some of the euphemisms that are part of the zeitgeist as I type – but at least, unlike Viz's Profanisaurus, it won't be filled with circular references that euphemise the euphemisms.

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The earliest euphemism I can remember using, as a playground taunt at an early age, was "your mother wears army boots".

This choice phrase, whose origin is probably in black US culture from the 1930s, long long before "yo'mamma" was a childish Internet forum stipend, I think may also have been an example of homophobia – coming from the same direction as "she wears 'comfortable shoes'."

Certainly we were unaware, at least consciously, of any such meanings at the time – in the late 1970s these things were still very much taboo – but at least, unlike the casual mindless use of gay for "bad" now, showed a little creative thinking in whoever coined it.

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As taboos change, so do the euphemisms. Not all of them are fun. One nasty one that's crept into the language, warping a perfectly useful word, over the past few years is any reference to the "indigenous British" – used by white supremacists to try to claim some form of entitlement to their ludicrous ideas.

Despite that, it's still a dynamic and inventive area of language – and there's always room for more. So for today's big question what I want y'all to do is try and invent a new euphemism, which may well sweep the nation [just like the Mudshark did].

You don't have to say what it's for – part of the fun will be guessing. I'm going to suggest "the giraffe wants to go for the highest leaves", "he often says 'ooh, she's about my size'", and "he's got shares in Flora margarine".

Over to you!

Warning: Mildly Saucy Content

Over on another site I occasionally frequent, it's become rather a ritual on the occasion of someone-on-there's birthday to post a picture of onesself showing off one's hottest attributes / attire.

And so it was this morning, when I celebrated my friend AOD's 30th with a picture. I decided it wasn't fair to allow the people over there to see this without sharing it with all you lot too [especially Cathy whose kind gift is shown below]:

And since it's my good friend Sheryl's birthday in a couple of days…

[there's a whole zip of pics to go with this, but they're totally unpostable here. Beg / bribe / swap if you want to see them ]

I'd like to see this "ritual" go to other sites and individual blogs too.

…My birthday is May 23rd. Just sayin'.

Friendly Warning: This post is safe for work, but contains tranny and shoe-liking content which some people may find TMI. If this means you, feel free to skip this post.

At the request of MissR, amongst others, here's my/Damini's shoe collection [or at least the part of it that didn't require moving twenty-six boxes to unearth].

Click for biggerosity:

part one – my favourites, always to hand [foot?].

part two – not so much, and stored away. There's more, but it'd take too much time and energy to get them, and they're not that bitchen.

I must thank the following people for buying me presents: Silver for 1 and 2, Cathy for number three, and number four are from Julie and 'Ron – see below.

I've turned up the settings on this shot so you can better see the lilac colour.

But these are the ones you're most likely to find me in should you pop randomly round to my little house.

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I have little idea where this particular preference of mine came from. AFAIK there's little study or knowledge of the origins and development of non-criminal "paraphilia" in people. It's usually linked to the "phallic" phase of the Freudian model, and mixed in with an Oedipal complex – the idea is, you crawl around the room and feet and shoes are what you see most of your mother – though mine never actually went for footwear much.

My first memory of any awareness of my likings – of course, in an instinctive rather than a rational way – was, natch, The Wizard Of Oz. I also remember a [what was for boys] unnatural interest in the fairy tale Cinderella, or at least the glass/fur slippers bit.

It wasn't until puberty that I first started to rationalize this. This was the cusp between Essex and London in the eighties: remember all those crappy Essex girl jokes about dumb girls in white stiletto pumps? For a good proportion of them, it was true.

I don't remember owning my own until I was about nineteen, though. Before then it was fairly easy to borrow/nick others', since my feet were still a reasonable size. It wasn't until '91 or '92 that a lesbian couple I knew, Julie and 'Ron, bought me my first pair: the boots above, out of a catalogue, to use whilst I was "donating" to them [obviously, they wanted as much out of me as possible...]

It was near impossible to find large sizes back in the bad old 90s; one had to rely on the adverts in the back pages of somewhat dodgy publications; there was one store in London, Transformations, which catered especially for trannies, but their prices were [and are] froggin' horrendous.

It wasn't until the Interwebz took off that I started actually collecting. Some auction sites, before eBay cornered the market and turned it into a consumer nightmare, were good in the early days until sellers started cottoning on that large sizes were in high demand and raised their minimum prices accordingly.

A few struggling manufacturers spotted a nice business opportunity and started selling direct over the web [Kinky Boots is a good semi-fictionalization of this].

And, best of all, links were made with friends across the pond in North America, where bigger sizes are more common [and therefore more affordable, even with postage and import taxes].

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It's not like I need shoes. They're not crack. I've had perfectly reasonable relationships with people where they've not wanted to wear them, nor wanted me to wear them. Fair enough, said I. When they ended, it wasn't for footwear reasons.

As I've said before, I don't force anybody to wear them. [Though training to wear them could be part of "play" in a particular power sort of relationship... ]

But it is rather like saying "you can marry me, if you never, ever eat cake again for the rest of your life". There's nothing like denial to make you fancy a cream bun…

So this is one of the reasons I try to be open and communicative about my likings. Of course, if I *do* find someone like-minded….

I have little to say today but the following:

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Last night's dream:

If you have seen these shoes in your wardrobe, or ones of similar appearance, please forward your name, address and times when you can be found indoors in them, on a postcard to the usual email…

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Told you.