Mistress Strangelove: Chapter 2: My Inner Bimbo

Mistress Strangelove or : How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love My Kinks

The (Mis)Adventures Of A Reluctant Mistress

Chapter 1 : A Shopping Addict Is Born
Chapter 2 : My Inner Bimbo
Chapter 3 : If The Nuns From My Catholic Grade School Only Knew
Chapter 4 : With Bells On
Chapter 5 : Would You Dance With Me?
Chapter 6 : Its Harder Than Walking And Chewing Gum
Chapter 7 : One Woman's Porn Is Another Woman's Research
Chapter 8 : 'With Bells On' In Real Life

Festooned out in pretty, blue silks with scripts for removing them (How cute! *blush* *giggle*), blond hair (only a few shades more bimbo than my real life hair), stripper heels (they were a bargain - they changed color *and* had sexy walk. I *saved* money by buying them.) In no time, I was a walking, talking, undulating advertisement for sex. I was out shopping for clothes, and I was affronted when some guy walked up to me and instant messaged, "Wanna fcuk [sic]?"

"How dare he say that to *me*?"

"Who does he think *I* am?"

"I'm not some cheap hooker that can be treated like that!"

"He didn't even talk to me first. I am used to dinner at the very least before guys work up the courage to say that to me. Okay, maybe just drinks sometimes."

"Oooo, look at that sexy outfit - I'd look *hot* in that!"

I was shopping at the time and I noticed an outfit I'd overlooked before. Righteous indignation has no place when confronted with pretty clothes - a girl's got to have her priorities.

In Real Life my blond hair acts as a superconductor - common sense and critical thought flow out of my head without resistance and ditziness enters unrestrained.

The epiphany happened later that day when I was adjusting a newly purchased shape that had the cutest face. I was giving it the correct body proportions by trying to recreate my real life appearance. After all, I'd seen those sex-pots walking around and I didn't want to end up looking like a trashy slut.

Looking down in real life...

"Hmmm, bigger boobs, I've always wanted bigger boobs."

Adjust.

"Maybe a bit bigger than that."

Adjust.

"Guys really like big boobs."

Adjust.

"Doesn't this darned slider go any higher?"

"Oh well, take *that* Suzie for developing earlier, filling out your cheerleader uniform better than I did, and beating me out to be prom queen all because your boobs were bigger than mine, now I'm bigger than you!"

"Hah! I showed her."

Cue smugness over winning a moral victory.

"Hmmm, now for the waist. Darn, I haven't exercised enough lately. Don't want it to be *too* real."

Adjust.

I promised myself, "When I get done with playing Second Life, I'll go back to exercising more..."

Adjust.

"Doesn't this darned slider go any lower?"

"How about the butt? I have a great butt - or so I've been told. I have that nailed."

Adjust.

"Perfect. Hmmm, you know those chicks that can stick out their butt and stop traffic? That'd be nice. More, god I abhor the word, bootilicious. Why is that word stuck in my head? I have to find a more refined word for it - I'm not trashy. A little more *that word I won't use* couldn't hurt - guys like that, don't they?"

Adjust.

"Maybe a bit more."

Adjust.

"Perfect."

I sit back and I look at my handiwork - a "slightly" idealized version of myself.

"God, I look like some teenage, wet-dream version of Barbie. Okay, the boobs are too big, I have to reduce the boobs. Smaller boobs will make it all better."

Reduce.

"Sheesh, that slider really reduces the boobs a lot for a little move down. Okay, maybe a little bigger."

Adjust.

"Hmm, they still don't look *too* big."

Adjust.

"Doesn't this darned slider go any higher?"

"Okay, maybe a less bimbo shade of blond will fix it. Back to the one like my real life hair."

Rez.

"That's a bit drab. A little lighter won't make me look like a bimbo."

Rez.

"Still a bit too dirty blond. One more shade lighter."

Rez.

"Perfect, now that's better and I don't look too much like a bimbo."

"Hey, isn't that the one I started with?"

The light finally dawned on me because my superconducting blond hair finally brought in a little, rather than draining it all away.

"I *am* a bimbo! No, that can't be right, I'm respectable, I have a corporate job and an office. I am *not* a bimbo."

Visions of being a cheerleader in high school entered my head. Scenes of abasing myself in short skirts and falling all over cute guys abounded. I recalled dumbing down my words so they wouldn't feel intimidated, a fact which always shocks me.

"That's not enough to make me a bimbo, is it?"

Visions of super-short, tight mini-skirts and high heels going to dance clubs to tease men entered my head. What about all the cleavage I show and the big hoop earrings?

"Darn, I am a bimbo."

An inner dialogue ensued where cognitive dissonance debated with my inner critic who decided to make her voice heard. She saw her opening and was attacking with a vengeance.

"But I like to dance, I took ballet for years. The skirts keep me cool in the hot dance clubs, they're *practical*. The heels make my legs look sexy. I can't be a bimbo for liking dancing and wearing 'practical' skirts, can I?" I reasoned like Socrates.

"What about the high heels?" my inner critic observed.

"A *little* sexy isn't enough to make me a bimbo, is it?"

"The big hoop earrings?" came the retort.

"Everyone likes hoops." I gamely try to counter.

"But, that big?"

"Okay, a little trashy, but definitely not a bimbo."

"All the cleavage?" The stare from my inner critic was palpable.

"Okay, okay, but only a little bit bimbo."

Visions of the 2" platform, black patent 6" heeled hooker boots sitting in the back of my closet entered my head. The uses to which I've put them made me blush.

"But they're only for use in the bedroom or on Halloween, you can't be a bimbo for being sexy in the bedroom and for wearing sexy outfits on Halloween, can you?"

My inner critic remained silent. I raced to fill the silence with excuses.

"Look, I was in sports in high school, I was on the math and science teams, I can program a computer, I have geek cred. I was more than just a cheerleader. I can't be a bimbo if I was on the math team, can I? I majored in science in college, I work in IT, I can't be a bimbo." I pleaded, desperation entered my inner voice.

"You drank a lot and slept with a lot of guys in college, you had numerous one night stands," came the accusation.

"That makes me slutty, not a bimbo." The illogic of that statement escaped me at the time, I was grasping for anything at that point.

"One word, 'thongs'." My inner critic snapped.

"No panty lines?" I offered up, whimpering and realizing that I don't own a pair of underwear that covers any portion of my butt. Which made me blush. Then, came the realization that I don't wear underwear under a couple of outfits because even my skimpy underwear is too much. The red deepened.

My inner critic glared at me. I withered under her baleful stare.

"Define bimbo," I cried using the last, desperate refuge of a pedant.

"You." The word gently, quietly echoed from my inner critic.

A few minutes of uncomfortable self-reflection passed, about all my attention span could handle, but I had the answer.

"Okay, I'm going to be the *best* bimbo ever." I resolved.

Day two on Second Life was nearing an end and I finally realized that deep down I was a bimbo. Being comfortable with the fact that I *enjoyed* being that way would take a long time; I still struggle with it and somehow feel its wrong. Thank you Catholic school upbringing and women's lib for making me feel guilty for living my life the way I want. As always, when confronted with the truth and finally made to accept it, I decided to dive completely in and revel in the consequences. A pattern I have repeated many times in my life.

I am still abasing myself in short skirts and falling all over cute guys, but now I won't compromise and dumb down my vocabulary, I have standards.

Cue smugness over winning a moral victory.

Next Post: Chapter 3: If The Nuns From My Catholic Grade School Only Knew