No. It’s something ascribed to you. To take the “title” would be…well, embarrassingly conceited.
Ergo, I will NOT say I’m the “quintessential sex blogger”…because I’m not. But it’s such a lovely word, isn’t it?
I can say I’m the quintessential slut for M. He’s kept me for 8+ years now, and isn’t planning to give me up, though he teases me from time to time about selling me for the $5 he needs for lunch money…*eye-roll*.
I might be able to brag that I’m the quintessential planner. I have schedules up the wazoo, all perfectly timed. (Life is what happens when you are making other plans, nilla.)
But I’m also quite adept at adjusting schedules and getting everyone where they need to be and, even more importantly, on time.
My calendar is color-coded by family member. There are charts. I shit thee not, I’m that person. I can tell you where I’ll be 5 months from now, on Tuesday at 3 pm. Or where my kids will be. Or where the cat will be.
Then there is Master.
We’re trying to plan a new playtime, since ours for later this month had to be bumped. Grrr. But it is what it is, and let me tell you, it was some piece of work to even get him to admit that he wasn’t going to make our end of the month beating/sexing/playtime.
“Nilla,” he says, his tone exasperated and yet mild.
“What day is it?”
“It was Tuesday when I got up this morning.”
“You’re being a smartass nilla.”
“What is tomorrow, nilla.”
Now *I* sigh.
“Tomorrow isn’t here yet, Master,” I say, my tone dragging low, monotone.
“Good girl. Do I know what the fuck I’m doing in June, nilla?”
“No Master. ” I sigh heavily into the phone.
“Pick a day, nilla. I’ll try to make it work before July rolls around.”
“Master, you’re such a bastard.”
“Thank you nilla. One tries.”
I laugh, I can’t help it.
He is the quintessential Bastard, truly.