Postage Gimp.
Today I went to
the Post Office to send a gimp mask.
I don’t own one for recreational purposes. It’s a prop (something I previously covered here). The other day I received a text from a friend asking if he could borrow it – for fancy dress rather than ‘sexy time’ – and, of course, I said yes.
It’s a relief to get rid of it, if I’m honest. It's very intimidating. I keep it in the storage cupboard outside my flat for distance, next to the cat o’ nine tails, the ball gag and the sex swing. “This is not just bondage gear; this is S&M bondage gear”.
(Best read in a Dervla Kirwan voice to a Fleetwood Mac accompaniment.)
The first step was getting it into town. Despite being hidden in my bag it still made me self-conscious. What if I was in a road accident? I’d hate to be discovered with the mask about my person and not be able to explain it. I don't want to end up on the front page of The Comet.
By the time it was jiffy-bagged and under my arm in the Post Office queue, I had things under control. I sauntered up to cashier number three with confidence.
“Can I ask what’s in the parcel?” she said.
“It’s a…hat.”
I suppose I wasn’t far off. I just wish I hadn’t put a return address on it.
I don’t own one for recreational purposes. It’s a prop (something I previously covered here). The other day I received a text from a friend asking if he could borrow it – for fancy dress rather than ‘sexy time’ – and, of course, I said yes.
It’s a relief to get rid of it, if I’m honest. It's very intimidating. I keep it in the storage cupboard outside my flat for distance, next to the cat o’ nine tails, the ball gag and the sex swing. “This is not just bondage gear; this is S&M bondage gear”.
(Best read in a Dervla Kirwan voice to a Fleetwood Mac accompaniment.)
The first step was getting it into town. Despite being hidden in my bag it still made me self-conscious. What if I was in a road accident? I’d hate to be discovered with the mask about my person and not be able to explain it. I don't want to end up on the front page of The Comet.
By the time it was jiffy-bagged and under my arm in the Post Office queue, I had things under control. I sauntered up to cashier number three with confidence.
“Can I ask what’s in the parcel?” she said.
“It’s a…hat.”
I suppose I wasn’t far off. I just wish I hadn’t put a return address on it.
