RIP Davy Jones

My blog post today is in honor of Davy Jones' passing yesterday. He is the first British guy to make me swoony. My sister and I used to kiss our tv screen during the closing credits of The Monkees. And on the show, the girls would get stars or hearts in their eyes when they'd get all dreamy-eyed over him. (And I'm such a dork. I can't remember what the little cheesy 70's graphic was and I spent at least 20 minutes trying to research this, to no avail.)
But that's exactly how Mr. G still makes me feel, down to my very core. Granted, my first crush really only made me want to kiss (mouths closed) and hold hands a lot. Mr. G makes me want to beg him to do things that even I think “wow, that's fucked up”.
But, for once, I'm not pure filth. I am fighting my preferred lazy writing (to only write pure smut, rubbing one off being the sole pursuit in the reading and writing of it.) This blog isn't the begging to cum, pussy soaking wet and throbbing so hard it's like the beat to a song kind of a feeling I'm trying to describe. This is really more the stars in the eyes feeling.
Thankfully, this is a state that has many levels to it. Most of which, I'm a fairly functional and even efficient human being. There are a few levels of dreaminess that I'm more impaired than if I'd had a painkiller/liquor/sleeping pill cocktail and I wouldn't operate heavy machinery when I'm like this. Most of the time when I'm really star-struck, all I can do is lay on the guest room bed and await any further instruction. Which most of the time is merely “you okay?” and Mr. G laughing at me because he pushed my buttons and I got all foggy and it's funny to poke fun at his girl who's in lala subbieland because he said a few naughty things in a row or spoke to me in his Dom voice.
But the other day. I felt so...dreamy-eyed. T even noticed it and said, “You have that moony look or starry-eyed or whatever you call it” when I hung the phone up after getting to *really* talk to Mr. G for quite some time. And it was so funny because I felt almost drunk with it (with feeling so submissive to my Master) that I went to that cocky, yeah, I know I look goofy with a big grin on my face place. And I didn't even care if I looked stoned. And it was so much more than just the happy after the orgasm. I have felt for days closer to him and more his than I have since I last left his country, crying on the train listening to Adele sing “Someone Like You” while I watched it snow.
Okay, I lied. This is a pussy throbbing my fingers aren't enough but I'm going to cum so hard kind of a blog. So it was confirmed for me that phone sex is, in fact, the best substitute. I'm such an auditory whore, hearing is the next best thing to feeling. Don't get me wrong, I love seeing. I will beg for a skype play until I'm blue in the face. But a proper quick and dirty phone sex session? Holy shit. I'd forgotten what an incredibly gratifying feeling having good phone can produce.
And per usual, when he has me so turned on I am nothing but his squirming needing to cum and wanting to facilitate Master's pleasure sex toy (wrong order!) I can't remember a fucking thing he said. I swear to God. It's like he wipes my memory clean after my orgasm. So I know we've just had amazing phone sex and I know I just had a great orgasm (the appetizer kind, though, where now you need to cum like 14 more times?) but I can't remember a fucking single thing he said to me. I know a few of my favorite makes my knees buckle when I hear them phrases were thrown out there. But beyond that, he could've been reading from a computer parts catalog. I honestly haven't an inkling what he said. And it's truly a cruel joke, considering how much his words affect me.  It's like they're so powerful, they completely erase my memories. Either that or he's got some kind an app for that on his phone...