A number of you who are cross-followers of both myself and missy will know that we have been running our own private (or not) Advent calendar for each other. Although some may groan at another person jumping on the band wagon of a Christmas-Advent-Kink idea, feel free, but I bet you’ll look at the pictures missy puts out! Even the Grinch has a perv on the QT!
Missy and I spent the best part of an hour coming up with a list of things we could do to keep us connected during, what is now quite a busy time of year. In previous years we would go our own separate ways Monday through to Friday, 9am-5pm. The past two years have been different because overseas work lands on my desk in December, which is really bloody convenient! The advent calendar was planned to accommodate that distance and have a some focus on us.
The reason I’m putting this post out is not to necessarily ring in the bells of Christmas, more to highlight to many of you new to D/s that even the best plans don’t make through the first phase of battle! A plan should be dynamic not set in concrete and able to ride with obstacles put in its path. Well that’s the theory!
So how have we done over the past 9 days into December? Could do better I would have to say.
1 – A Glass of Christmas – This went well and fun was had by all!
2 – Pine Needles of different variety – We used the last of the needles and ordered more.
3 – Gold, frankincense and Mhyrr Festive Massage – Finally got to bed late and decided just to fuck. A win in many ways!
4 – It’s Nippy Out there – Sort of happened, but sore nipple stopped play. These things happen!
5 – Christmas Decorations – Didn’t happen – Late night and I forgot to get body paint or pens
6 – Naughty Lunchbreak – Didn’t happen. Missy schedule was far too packed and a parents evening thrown in to plan out.
7 – Christmas Stockinged Dinner Date – Didn’t happen. Village Pantomime that started early and went on too late
8 – Naughty Elf – Missy’s work night out and a 2am bedtime. Elf did dress up and had fun but it was late. I’m sure she’ll be back!
Despite not being able to manage every event, there is no pressure or disappointment. The ones that were missed go on a ‘to do’ list for after the 25th. We have come accept that you can’t have everything you ask Santa for, and sometimes a substitute is equally as fun; well that not always true, is it?
During the height of the UK skateboard craze in the late 1970’s I asked Santa for a board of my own. Staying at a desolate, wind-swept holiday camp on the English south-west coast for Christmas I was excited when the big day came. I can recall looking out of the condensation covered chalet window, and through the streaks of water that had formed after my fingers had disturbed the vapour, I saw boys and girls on skateboards. How cool and very faux American they looked.
Sitting on the floor I opened gift after gift; yellow safety helmet, plastic elbow and knee pads and a thick pair of builders gloves. I looked a joke standing there in my flared jeans, home knit brown Arran jumper and very cheap battered trainers; but I didn’t care, I really didn’t. Finally, I picked up what was the unmistakable shape of a skateboard wrapped in snowman patterned paper. I ripped off the thin barrier between now me and the soon to be cool me. However, there was something wrong about the object in my hand. It was obviously a carefully cut piece of wood, sanded to perfection and varnished to a deep shine. It was truly a work of art. On the underside, however, was the unmistakable wheels of a roller skate. In fact it was one roller skate cut on half with the wheels screwed either end of the board. I looked at my parents and smiled, who smiled back lovingly. I then looked out of the window and prayed it would rain hard, and for a very long time.
Alas, it was not to be, and after lots of thank you’s for my lovely gifts, I stepped outside on to the disappointingly still dry hard concrete. It felt like stepping out on to the moon as I had seen Neil Armstrong on TV. Very slow, and concerned about what would happen next. Let’s just leave this story knowing that the board was never going to work in a month of Sunday’s and that my appearance attracted some unwanted attention. And as I rolled around the floor swinging fists at one of my tormentors, I’m sure I saw my Dad looking down through the widow of our cold, damp chalet with a glass of eggnog in hand. I now reflect on this and imagine him thinking at the time, ‘Merry Fucking Christmas son.’