This morning, M turned to me and said, “And as effing usual, I won’t be able to get your Valentine’s Day present until after Valentine’s Day. Payday is Monday.” And I kind of blew him off.

“It’s no biggie, really. So I’m reading this abstinence-only study they did in Pennsylvania…”

Anything more would have sent him down a guilt spiral that really isn’t necessary. I’ll be thirty in April, not ten. I’m all growed up, and I understand that paydays don’t always coincide with birthdays and holidays and anniversaries, and money doesn’t grow on trees. Though wouldn’t it be awesome if it did? We’d all be wealthy then.

And besides that, I’m property. Celebrating these things is a privilege, not a right. And that M even buys me presents at all is rather nifty. I mean, when’s the last time you bought your book a present? And no, the bookmark they put in your bag at Barnes & Noble doesn’t count.

Okay, so M loves you. You’ve gotten your point across. But what about romance?

In the “slavier than thou” contests on so many online M/s boards (So, be honest. Does this scowl make me look jaded, to you? How ’bout from the side?), one of the yardsticks we use to measure that by is whether or not there is romance in our relationships.

“Omigosh, he bought you chocolates? You so are not twoo!”

“Wait… She ran you a bubble bath, and then gave you a rub down, before letting you soak for hours? What the hell’s wrong with her? Mistresses do not do nice things for their slaves!”

“Flowers at work? You sure he’s not going vanilla on you?”

(That last is a direct quote from one of my internet friends from way back when. Master had surprised me with half a dozen red roses at work. It was the first time anyone but my family had sent me flowers.)

And what’s better is romance in M/s relationships doesn’t stop at “vanilla” gift giving. For example, a friend of mine was barraged with a stream of comments that sounded a lot like, “Hahaha, no way would my owner do that for me. All that icky-poo, fluffy bunny, romance stuff. And you call yourself twoo! Ha!” (Though these ladies would never say that! Perish the thought!) after asking if any of our owners ever gave us orders simply because we enjoyed them. As if having one’s needs met is a disgusting, nightmarish idea and dissolves all chance of winning the “Slave of the Year” award.

I’m sorry to say I’ve never once been nominated for the “Slave of the Year” award. I probably never will be. Boo.

I know slaves who will say, “Oh, pish posh. Romance isn’t all that big of a deal. My idea of romance is when he stuffs his sweaty feet in my lap and says, ‘Rub, cunt.’ not flowers and candies and teddy bears.” and secretly wish that just once, his idea of romance would be bringing them home something they’ve been lusting after for ages. I know others who really do get annoyed by flowers and candies and teddy bears.

I used to tell everyone I hated flowers, but that was to save myself the embarrassment of receiving them at work. I do dislike most Valentine’s chocolates, though. And I’ll eat them anyway because they’re chocolate. Addiction, much?

The quickest way to my superficial heart, though, is a stuffed animal. I’m addicted. It’s the one little-girl vice I’ve allowed myself to hang on to.

My romantic side’s curled up and died. Somewhere along the line, I got it in my head that he didn’t appreciate it, or want it, and stopped doing silly little things for him, like buying a rose on the way out the convenience store, or spending all day working on a homemade card. I don’t even really write erotica anymore.

I always think, “He knows I care.”

I’m rather self-centered for a slave.

I ordered a hood and a new ball gag and a tongue ring vibrator for Valentine’s Day. The hood alone would have been gift enough since I’m petrified of them, but I’m probably going to try to make a nice dinner, and maybe bake a cake. I haven’t baked in ages. It’ll be fun. And it’ll definitely be cheaper and less aggravating than going out to dinner.

You’re probably wondering why I’ve spoiled the surprise by saying what I’m going to do here. M doesn’t like surprises. And even if he did, I wouldn’t really have any way of surprising him. He’d have to give me the money. He would probably insist on going with me. He’d probably even insist on knowing what I planned on buying before agreeing to let me do it.

He doesn’t do it to be a pain in the ass. He doesn’t even really do it because he owns me, though if that were the reason he gave, I would accept it. He does it because I don’t keep as close of an eye on our finances, or the cost of things, as he does. He tells me, often, how much money we have, but I almost never keep track of how much we’re spending. And when he does spend money on me I get so antsy I can’t stand it. I think they call that “buyer’s remorse”.

He’s become more of a romantic, lately. It’s pretty awesome. He decided he didn’t really care about this perceived image of a master who remains aloof and distant from his slave. He’s not aloof and distant from me. And he likes to see me smile and blush and go all warm and soft. Especially since he’s the only one who’s figured out how to make me do it. So why shouldn’t he be romantic and sappy and saccharin sweet?

But if he is, then I guess it’s time for me to step up my game in that area, too. Can’t be outdone in the romance department by an icky boy! What would my fellow females think? It’s just a pain having to give him notice all the time.

“By the way, M, I think this Tuesday I’ll want to do something sweet for you. I’m gonna need about $60, permission to shop without you and some time in the apartment alone. Think you can pencil me in around 6pm?” just doesn’t make my heart go all a-flutter, you know?