The adventures of OUR NEW COLUMNIST feminist submissive NICKY IVES, a churchgoing Sussex townie in her ongoing quest for kinky love in...
Maybe I should explain a bit more...
My family are uber-religious church clergy – that's vicar to most people – who live a squeaky clean lifestyle and frown disapprovingly if I say something that sounds like I Want to Swear, but don't.
Just the swearing tone of voice, the general attitude, is a no-no. Luckily they don't know I'm a kink-obsessed chick with a penchant for fishnet. Seriously, they don't know.
My relatives, however, do know that I go out to the pub with mates on occasion (Ha!) and generally like to be sociable. They already think I've gone completely off the rails because I smoke, have the occasional beer, and believe in sex before marriage. Oops.
It's like being home as a kid again. I'm always having to watch my language and behaviour, and dress like a freakin' nun. Which means that when I get back home I chain smoke, neck bottles of beer, and generally have a blast.
Which brings me to the visit to the local jailhouse.
Which rocks, in a weird kind of way. But I have to be on my best behaviour – I don't think said Vicar really approved of the thigh high leather boots I was rocking. But the female officer who insisted on patting me down 'for security' practically every time I moved; she did like the boots. And, I get the feeling, a bit more... to boot.
It was amusing, if a little fucking weird.
Oh, did I just swear? Must be time for a beer...
Till next time,