I am suspicious of extravagant flattery. Tell me on first meeting that I am the most amazing and beautiful and sexy woman you have ever met and you will likely notice my eyes narrowing and the set of my mouth becoming tighter. I am thinking, if your standards are so low, and pretty words fall so easily from your lips, then how can I trust what you tell me about anything else?
Having said that, let me also add that, like most humans, I do like and appreciate compliments. I was thinking about them this afternoon while weeding my garden. I don’t know if there’s some connection there or not, but it was when it occurred.
The compliments that have meant the most to me were based on knowledge of me. The ones that matter to me, too, were based on knowing myself, as well. Tell me that I’m sweet, and it won’t matter much, because I know I am not especially sweet. Tell me I have integrity, and it will, because I believe I do.
One of the most moving compliments I ever received was given to me long ago, by someone I discovered a month or so ago had actually passed away nearly a decade ago. I found myself unexpectedly affected by that, though we’d had no contact at all for seven or eight years anyway, and no significant contact for a dozen years.
He handed me a rose once, and said, “Here, Madame. Teach this beauty.”
A silver-tongued devil, he was. He told me once, too, that my heart was too big to fit in a smaller body. That was a nice one, as well.
My first male lover told me once that I was a “banquet, a feast.”
Much more recently I was told I was like a “delicious little truffle.”
Back in the late 1990’s, when I was living in Indianapolis, I had a favorite playmate, one of those things where our tastes matched and meshed and our play times were always intense and pretty sexual. There was a time when I had him tied to my bed, spread-eagle on my bed, while I sat astride him, fucking.
I was very good at knowing exactly when to stop moving to keep him from coming, and at one particularly erotic moment, he gasped out, “You’re so sexy when you’re mean.” I always liked that one.
Another favorite lover once paused mid-thrust to thank my mother and father for certain of my anatomical attributes. That was both flattering and made me laugh. I told him once that a waiter had flirted with me quite concertedly in a restaurant and his response was, “The man had eyes, didn’t he?
slave drew is relatively lavish with compliments. He often tells me how grateful he is to have me in his life and that he would be lost without me. One of the nicer compliments, though, wasn’t directly from him. Years ago, I was talking to his brother’s wife – the brothers themselves were off doing something else, and she said to me, “You know, when you’re not around, you are all he talks about.” That was a very sweet compliment, even if a roundabout one.
slave thomas has paid me lovely compliments as well. A year or two we were discussing something in email and he told me that he had only known one extraordinary woman in his life, and he had been lucky enough to wear her collar. He told me lately that he wanted me to know he was proud to be my slave.
On a less delicate note, years ago we had a man in the community, Rusty. Rusty was a former Navy Seal and taught survival skills for the Army. He was red-headed and red-bearded and built just like a fireplug. I remember at one party long ago he and I sat under the stars and he would sing an Irish drinking song and I would recite a poem. We did that for a couple of hours there, people coming and sitting for a while, then drifting away, others drifting in.
He told me I was “one hell of a dame.”
Now THERE’S a compliment.