Wednesday Melbourne and Bedtime Stories

Hunter and I keep trying to remember what else we did Wednesday between the trip back from Ballarat and me heading off to Eagle to teach my class, but we both keep drawing a blank. It may have just been hanging out talking with Spidey, in fact, it may have been just that. I then headed off by foot down Brunswick, over to Johnston, down to Hoggle and over towards Eagle as per the directions, stopping to pick up a nick nack I needed for an upcoming ritual along the way (perfect in fact, I just need paint pens now to modify it with). The directions said that if I got to Gipp, I’d gone too far.I got to Gipp, and had not passed it.I minorly freaked, tried to call folks but failed, then wandered into a different SM shop and told me it was two blocks up on the left. Ah, Gipp was info from the other direction- whoops.But I still got there in plenty of time, and my new class “Bondage on the Female Form” went of really well, including the fun bits about getting to know your partner’s body and decide what will please you both on their form.After class (and picking up a travel sureshot- all plastic and lightweight, and a pair of camo pants to replace my ruined pair, and a collar for Gunner, my inner Doberman) Hunter and I headed off for drinks. We found some gay bar that was supposedly the hopping place to go (everything else we passed was closed), and, um, no. If happening is one drunk asian man and one overweight whiny aboriginal woman complaining that she had lost her pot to the security guard, I was SO not interested. We walked home after ten minutes debating in the cold.I stole a tambourine (lost at puppy romp at Chains) from the Salvation army donation bins. I somehow managed to get out of my gourd (I can pick up other peoples drugs or head space by skin contact sometimes) and soon enough we’d stolen a push cart from Safeways. I’d never been pushed around in a push cart. Really. I was always the pusher, as it were, so Hunter was determined to fix this. Add to it a mind fuck (inspired by Uncle Strider’s Bedtime hour- FUCK, THAT’s what we did during the down time) involving a huge rubbish bin, and by the time we got back to Spidey’s, I was lost indeed.Me: I got driven home!Spidey: Oh good, I know it was a long walk there.Me: By Hunter.Spidey: What?!? (knowing Hunter has no car or license at this point)Me: In a push cart.*insert laughs all around*For people who do not know about Strider- this would be a chance for me to expound a bit (especially for folks who have not regularly read this journal for years).I met Strider at a Leather Retreat event about 2.5 years ago. I was talking with BRJulia who had moved to Boston since I had known her in the bay area via Lenora, and up wandered this round bellied strong shouldered man who was moderately attractive with a mustache, brunette short hair, in leather pants and a slimy ewww gross smirk on his face.BRJulia: Bridgett, you have to meet Strider, he is the kinkiest person I know in the NorthEast (Strider Grins). Strider, meet Bridgett, she is the kinkiest person I know.I was doomed. Strider took this initial introduction as a challenge (in good spirit) to try to out-kink me. Now the reality is, he *is* raunchier than I am. Vomit, Filth, Scat etc can work for me in very limited situations with other people who that inspires something within them… but by themselves are in all reality 99% of the time a turn off. But, I do pretty much everything, depending on the circumstances, which was what BRJulia was referring to. However, since I was not a raunch bunny, Strider considered himself the filthier of the two of us, and decided to try to initiate me into how fucked up he was and in turn, how fucked up he could make me.I love Uncle Strider and Auntie Dancer dearly. They are two perverted amazing fabulous generous art collecting intelligent souls who make me happy on a bevy of levels. He and I had grand times drinking Italian hot choclates, smoking cigars, and hitting lots of galleries when I was visiting him in Lowell, and our time playing at LR was fucked up beyond belief (my first scat scenes as a bottom, my first time vomiting in a scene when the other person knew about it, etc) In Lowell however he took the cake with what he and I affectionately call “Uncle Strider’s Bedtime Stories”. These fucked up tales are a step beyond either individuals given deep dark fucked fantasies, and on this journal a while back I posted a bedtime story (beginning) of this vein about amputation a while back.The challenge with bedtime stories, is that if both the people really end up getting off on them, how to know if the fantasy is something that should stay a fantasy. If one is someone who enjoys delving into debauchery of the soul and seeing what dark recesses are on the other side, and one is offered with bucking hips and a wet cunt or hard cock when the fucked up offer is put on the table, it leaves everyone involved asking, in the back of their mind, would we ever really go there? Would he ever? Could she ever? Would I ever?In some cases the simple things are an emphatic yes (my interest in human ashtray play and putting cigars out in my wet mouth for example, which I enjoy but makes for some great fucked up bedtime stories), while others are emphatic no’s (forced human baby factory in a mental institution, mostly because I am vain and want to keep my teeth). But then you find parts of possibilities, fragments of I’m not sures, and THAT is what makes Uncle Strider’s Bedtime Stories hot. They are also now known as Mummy/Aunty/Uncle Bridgett’s (or other names for me) Bedtime Stories. Though a cock up your ass I find sometimes helps too.