Consent

Charting all of my sexual conquests creates a list that is severely lopsided in one direction. 'Conquests' perhaps is not the right word. That implies offense, battering rams, hordes of marauding mercenaries spilling over village walls. I don't seek and conquer women. I set sexual traps.

I was walking across the street the other day, minding the oncoming traffic, when my head suddenly filled with the catalogue of females i've dated, been involved with, or even just flirted with heavily. I was standing on the curb, but instead of waiting for a break in the flow of cars, i wanted one to stop dead still for me, so that i could proceed. I moved my body onto the street, and nudged my way out into the boulevard until some unlucky sap stepped on the brakes, seeing that i was resolute and held the winning position in this game of chicken. My romantic exploits mimick this. I continued on my way, following the pattern i was tracing in my head that demonstrated a regular practice of baiting the females in my life.

From the earliest time that i explored the dynamic of inter-gender intimacy, i would identify someone i liked then make my cast to entice her interest in me. I'd dangle my baby blues, my charm long enough for her to get hooked. But, that would be as far as i would go. I wouldn't "close the deal". She would have to make the first move. Once she did, once her appendages got stuck to the fibers of my web, i'd come out of the dark and pounce on her. The more i examined this pattern, the clearer it became what i have always been seeking.

I've never told a girl that i loved her first. Now some of you may think this is common among menfolk. My reasonings do not necessarily follow the typical male reticence to admit love. I can count on two fingers the number of girls i've approached and asked out, whether it was at a bar, a cafe, the library, a store. Anywhere. I let them come to me. I let them express any semblance of attraction before i moved on them. That would be in the kindest and most humane instances. There were many girls who expressed their affection, and i would play with them, sadistically toiling with them, but never indulging their wishes. I'm not proud of that. Much of this i'm not proud of, but i recognize why i acted this way. I acted according to a code that resembled that of Bram Stoker's most copied character. I needed to be invited in before i would feast upon her flesh.

In my massive library of pornographic material (consisting of items that are both overtly and unintentionally pornographic), the stories, images, or videos make up a curatorial exhibit on the act of consent. Sure, littered amongst the articles are those few shots where a girl suffers without any clear evidence of her wanting to be there, but those are so rare, especially considering the size of my collection (Bigger or smaller than the Library of Congress? Don't insult me with a comparison to that book cart). The long thread that weaves in and out of the various kinky sundries i nibble on - whether it be a girl enveloped in layers of latex and turned into a rubber doll, or a simple over the knee ritual swatting - uniting the diversity into one theme is the implied or proudly stated desire to participate. I lose my marbles so much quicker watching a girl suffer in agony knowing that she would give her last marbles to partake in this ordeal.

My pursuit is not the act of gaining permission and then, only then, proceeding with my twisted agenda. The actual accordance to proceed makes up a large part of the enticement. My mouth has long hydrated itself when it has found a female victim who wants me to infect her with my sordid and dangerously medieval mind. Once i have her, the constant presence of her willingness fuels my twistedness, pushing me to search the extents of my own sadism.