Where does this passion come from?
Who can i thank for my unending lust?
Who can i curse for my obsession?
Who lights this spark in me, igniting a fire that searches out fuel that can only come from the struggle of a female?
What am i seeking?
Am i running with mighty haste from, or to something?
I've often spoke of darkness, and i hear others refer to darkness inside them when they approach or marvel in their kink, but what really grows out of me as i touch the different manifolds of my sexuality is light. She is the filament, i am the current flowing through her, from which we illuminate dark, uncovered corners. She is the stone, i am the flint that strikes against her surface, shooting sparkling embers into the air, igniting the match head to produce a seedling flame.
However, I do not believe this is just sexuality or even the pure act of procreation. I struggle to define what exactly operates inside my own psyche, but i know i seek more than just a receptacle for my seed. I always have. As a young boy who lurched clumsily along my pocked field of puberty, the fantasies that brought me to my quick climaxes never consisted of me "getting with the girl". They always (and still do) consisted of me "possessing" her. In fact, when we consider biology, any chalice would serve science's purposes. I could find a random female, and as long as i have ejaculated enough semen into her that finds purchase in her womb, my genitals have suceeded galantly.
No, this is much more than simply extroverted petri dishes. How strange it must sound to the outside observer, to my friends who have no idea why i keep a lock and key on a particular door in my residence, that i find peace in such barbarism. I live in a place where "liberal" is a redundancy when assigned to someone's political views, and so i exist in a world where the protocol i enforce in my house would be labeled (has been labeled unknowingly) as sexist, Third World, fundamentalist and archaic. I can imagine the full volume debates with these people who have eaten off of my china, dined in my parlor, commemorated great events and notable celebrations for me, when they hear my supposition that i torment, bind, batter and chastise my girl in order to find peace.
Pacificity. How absurd and contradictory. One cannot live by the hard line order of their lover's regular corporal punishment and also assert that they derive peace from this, can they? One cannot enforce a stringent dress code that abides by social and cultural gender stereotypes, and claim that doing so delivers them to a near Nirvana state, can they? One cannot feel a drive to strip their loved one of their human identity, relegating them to the status of an immobile object, all the while experiencing a picturesque sampling of inner sanctum - or can they? I will not lay metaphysical claim that what i seek, constantly allowing a divining rod to guide me to a source, is the same transcendental mastery those ascetics burrowed deep into monasteries pursue. But i know the purpose for my incendiary is more than just sexual apex.
To go back to my very first post, i wonder what part of the Big Bang's matter seared itself to my cellular structure. To who am i dependent upon for my life and the manner in which i carry it out? I ask rhetorically for an explanation of my inner chemistry, half dangling my toe into the bathtub of knowledge to test its scalding temperature, while also looking to skip the cleanse altogether, concluding it is better not to know.