Last November, zaiah and I hosted an 11/11/11 party, because 11/11/11 is an aesthetically pleasing date and parties are fun.
My sweetie emanix flew into town from London to attend. zaiah‘s Canadian boyfriend had planned to be there as well, though last-minute illness delayed his trip, with the result that only three nations were represented instead of four. The party was great fun; zaiah‘s cage was broken in for the first time, there were enough Jell-O shots to sink a battleship (at least a reasonably small battleship, whose crew were perhaps not the heaviest of drinkers), a large pile of Barbie dolls was cast into bondage for the benefit of some tentacle monsters, and I erroneously recorded elsewhere that at one point a total of three threesomes were going on simultaneously in the basement. The correct number of threesomes is four.
However, none of that is what I came here to talk about. I actually came here to talk about what happened afterward.
A couple of days later, emanix happened to mention in passing that she’d quite like to be stuck with needles, and that on a possibly related note she brought an assortment of birthday candles with her.
As I may have mentioned earlier, there just so happened to be a quite large cage, trimmed in LED rope lights, sitting in the living room from the party. It turns out that normal, regulation-sized birthday candles are just a tiny bit too wide to fit into the hub of normal, regulation-sized needles–a sad commentary on the lack of coordination among standards-setting bodies, and something that will be remedied when I rule the world, oh yes. A bit of work with a kitchen knife soon remedied that difficulty, however, and we were ready to begin.
Shortly thereafter, there was, as sometimes happens, a bunny in a cage.
For reasons not clear to your humble scribe, I often seem to get this look when I spend time with emanix.