I was a rather odd child. I had weird interests, and I was entirely too smart for my age. I didn’t have friends at first, so I did lots of reading. But it was the games I played that were really weird.

I had all sorts of Fisher Price Little People toys. I LOVED them. I still sort of do. A friend who collects Fisher Price stuff gave me a peg dog, who was my favourite, and sits in my curio cabinet. (Yes, I have a curio cabinet. Filled with curios. It is at my parents house, as my new place didn’t have enough room for it.)

One of the Little People play sets I had was this garage, which had a working ‘lift’ for the cars. I often played a game in which one of the ‘bad’ Little People would use the lift to crush one of the other Little People to death. I’m pretty sure there was some sort of sex involved as well. Sometimes, they would get rescued, but not always. All I can say is, thanks god I had a made up language I used when I played with them, or my parents would have gone nuts.

Another set of toys that got me in trouble were the My Little Ponies, and toy handcuffs. When I had a pair of toy handcuffs, I used them to cuff the neck of one of the ‘bad’ ponies, and lead him to his trial, and eventual death. While I sat on the floor of the kitchen, I would lead them to the edge of a cliff, and just as my mother dropped a fresh chicken cutlet into hot oil on the stove, the pony would plunge to his death in a vat of hot oil.

My parents figured out what I was doing there. I was banned from owning handcuffs after that.

I also had a habit of handcuffing my sister to stuff. I wanted her out of the way. Other times, I remember tying her up with jump rope and trying to interrogate her about the whereabouts of my toys.

Then, there was Barbie. I didn’t like Barbie. She’s a fucking cunt. She always bothered me. I was irritated by the lack of accurate anatomy. She had no nipples, and often, her underwear was patterned directly on her body.  Barbie often suffered quite a bit. I cut their hair, and redid their make up in black.  I also used to tie them up together, naked, and hang them from the ceiling fan, which I would then turn on.

Sometimes, it would be Ken who got tied up. The girls would all be in their powder blue Cadillac convertible, dressed up, while Ken would be dragged naked from the back of the car. Yeah. Not sure why. I love boys. Always have. In fact, I was a bit of a tomboy myself. My best friends were boys until I met Maria when I was seven.

But my favourite, my hands down favourite, there was a game my best male friend and I used to play. “Captive Princess.” Rocco and I would pretend my swing set was an impenetrable fortress, and the gymnastic rings were manacles. Sometimes, I was being held captive by, oh, I don’t know, an evil knight, or a dragon or something, and he would have to fight he way through and rescue me.

Usually though, I made Rocco play the princess, so that I could rescue him. I liked being the one who had to rescue him. There wasn’t any sort of gender bending/confusing/whatever involved. He was a captured knight, and I had to save him. Usually I was princess, or a witch, or a fairy.

Thinking of that now, I still like it. I like the idea of saving a captured knight and having him ride away with me. I read way to many historical romance novels, because I can think of so many permutations.

At the moment, I’m fixated on cowboys. I just watched a cowboy episode of Charmed. (In the cowboy fantasy, the cowboy is usually Sebastian, or at least he looks and sounds like Sebastian - he half looks the part, what with the boots and the bandannas and the hair. Other boys fill in for other time periods. Though they all show up for ‘Naked Harem Boys’)

Riding into town in my pink cowboy had, and having a shoot out with the the black hats and saving my sexy cowboy from a hanging just in time, sweeping him off his feet. After saving him from certain death and recovering his family ranch from his evil cousin, he devotes himself to me and my every whim.

Or maybe instead of riding in and saving him, I *am* the black hat, whipping him through the streets while on my horse, the back of his shirt in ribbons and falling off, sweat dripping off his face as he stumbles ahead of me.  Then, in a romance novel like change of heart, I decide to keep him, and toss him over the back of my horse and take him back to my lair.

Or maybe there is no change of heart and I herd him to my lair, riding the whole way and forcing him to hobble along in front of me. Did I mention he was wearing hobbles? Of course he is. We don’t want him to run too far ahead. Spoils the fun.  To make things yummy looking, he’s wearing tight denim and leather chaps.  I get to wear spurs and jangle in a menacing way while I walk.

Another fun one is where the boy is the black hat, trying to rob the stage coach or train that I’m on, and he takes me hostage. In this one, I let him ravish me, but I’m a sassy, spunky independent woman of the type unheard of at the time, full of piss and vinegar, and I join him in his lawless, sexy ways.

Huh. I should start writing this stuff to publish. Sexy, kinky, historical romance novels with a hot female protagonist? Hell, I’d buy that!