The lustful quality of watching her erotic demise

Closing up shop

2011-06-05T08:59:00.000-04:00

Over the next few weeks, all public vestiges of this persona known as "Deity" will cease to remain active. I will not take down the material already published, but there will be no additional items added to the collections.

As i intend to completely abandon this site, and release it into the ether, i will also strip it of links to other sites in my sidebar should those over time cease to exist. The intention is to make this a completely standalone destination.

In this day, what gets published on the Internet persists indefinitely, so i do not buy into the illusion that i could take it all down. More importantly, that's not of interest to me. It may continue to serve as an entertaining distraction to those who come upon it organically, and for that reason, i'll seal it in a transparent time capsule as a documentation of a theme and time period that others may find on their own.

I've enjoyed my time installed at the helm of this "Deity". It was a good fit for a very long time. I will think of it and the wonderful interactions it has allowed me with fondness.

Be well.

Porn: the scapegoat

2011-03-13T21:18:00.000-04:00

I have battled a great deal of my life with the idea that my sexuality and how i express it has negative social implications - both for myself and my partners, but also, since i started authoring The Lustful Quality, for anyone who might stumble upon the myriad subjects tackled here. These walls that i have occupied for several years have acted as my refuge from the forces who insist my very appetites are damaging to both myself and their targets. Yet, i mislead those who have chosen to read my words if i do not permit the occasional counter point to my own perspective. I have achieved sanctuary under this pseudonym. The numerous entries penned as 'Deity' have allowed me to wrestle with my internal demons, and to put that struggle on display for you, the reader. All of it would lead one to believe that i have achieved immunity from any claims that i cause more harm than good. Unfortunately, such is not the case.

I have not recently received any direct rebuke for my expressions, but instead, i continue to encounter articles, well-intended of course, whose sole aim is to arouse alarm and fear. Recently, i came across an article written by a college professor that strikes at the very heart of what i feel i'd intelligently (if not a little arrogantly) defended. The author chooses to re-frame an old argument about porn media and the unruly decay it sows, but instead of focusing on the patriarchal subjugation of the female gender portrayed in it, she rushes to the aid of its target: our young men. Many of her points, on face value, resemble the pedestrian no-brainers of soliciting sympathy for our young men as victims (in addition to our young women). However, much of what she seeks to strike down as repugnant pornographic practices superimposes victimhood on our boys rather than actually succeeding in proving her thesis. Instead, as i read her scholarly argument, i found myself brewing with anger over how yet another 'adult' just doesn't understand what it is they are observing in porn's media dominance.

I think the best way i can illustrate my argument is to quote entire paragraphs of the article, followed by my counterpoint. I leave it to the reader to decide if i've done what i sought out to do.

When she says:

Defenders of porn say that it is just harmless fantasy and anyone who criticizes porn is an anti-sex prude. The reality is that porn, like all media images, has an effect on the way we think about the world, and while it won't turn the average boy or man into a rapist, it will help shape the way he thinks about women, sexuality and intimacy. Indeed, it will impact on how he thinks about his own sexuality. To think for a moment that boys can masturbate to these images and not be affected is to ignore how we, as social beings, learn what it means to be human from the cultural messages that surround us.

There isn't much immediately that i can take issue with here. I'm not sure what she means by "defenders of porn" because she doesn't offer any further explanation of that term. I can only assume she means the millions of viewers, both male and female, of the various porn outlets one can find on the Internet - but you and i both know that is not what she means. She means the MALE defenders of porn. I am a voracious consumer of pornography. I have been from a very early age, yet i can honestly say the material i have ingested no more shapes the way i think about women than it does the way i think about men. And if porn is the barometer by which both genders must be measured, i would say neither gender fairs well. Pornography as i experienced it wasn't rampantly available in my youth, like it is now, and yet, amongst my peers, i would say that the dark, twisted fantasies that i possess goes further than most men i know. What i mean to say is that the sexuality i developed and that has written every single one of these debaucherous posts arose without the benefit of an endless, at-my-fingertip source of illicit material. Put another way, getting rid of Internet-based porn (which is the main point the author is advocating for) will not make fewer monsters like myself.

From an early age boys are bombarded with messages about what it means to be a "real man," and any deviation from this leaves a boy open to humiliation and ridicule. As boys get older, there is tremendous peer pressure to look at porn since this is seen as a rite of passage into manhood. Just take a quick look at the enormously popular adolescent boy movies of Judd Apatow, or listen to Howard Stern, or play any bestselling video games, to see how porn use is seamlessly packaged as an integral part of being a man. The end result is that rather than developing a sexual identity that is authentic, affirming, and in keeping with their own developmental time clock, boys are bullied into a sexuality that is created by a bunch of predatory businessmen whose goal is to maximize profits, not nurture the wellbeing of our sons.

The first thought i have when i ponder this paragraph is that this author has chosen not to address the myriad options that exist in pornography directed at homosexual males. "...any deviation from this leaves a boy open to humiliation and ridicule." While i do not deny that boys are bombarded with messages that are meant to adhere ones actions to a specific form of masculinity, this author has chosen to imply that the only pornographic path one can take is that of a straight male's interest. Yet, much of what she criticizes as the portrayal of women in porn can be found in a similar role in gay porn: the bottom. You cannot chastise the way women are portrayed in pornography as justification for why an endless supply is harmful if you completely ignore the fact that men play both roles in homosexual theater.

After twenty years of traveling the country giving lectures on porn, I have spoken to thousands of men and while it is clear that not all are affected in the same way, affected they are. Remember, this is the generation that grew up with Internet porn, and unlike previous generations these boys and men have an unlimited supply to hardcore porn 24 hours a day.

Twenty years of traveling, and it hasn't occurred to her that our men are being affected by something other than an unlimited supply of hardcore porn? She sounds an awful lot like a reactionary, as someone who idealizes a time that once was. When was this ideal period where men valued women as equals and not as sexual objects to redeem their sexual conquests? In the modern era, women are being given thousands more opportunities to take active, producing roles in the porn that flows into this endless stream. Where is the outrage for the exploitation of women when there were no female producers, directors and owners of pornographic products?

These young men have become so accustomed to porn sex that some are disappointed by their own sexual performance. When they compare themselves to the male porn actors, who can sustain Viagra-fortified erections for long periods of time, the guys I talk to often admit to feeling like sexual losers, and worry that something is wrong with them. Adam grew up watching his father's porn and felt that "porn taught me all I know about sex. My parents never mentioned the word sex at home, and sex ed in school was a ... joke. I had this image of how great sex would be, both of us going at it for hours. So it was kind of a shock the way the real thing turned out..."

Trust me, even without millions of hours of racy footage displaying the sexual prowess of professional pornstars, boys feel like sexual losers. I do not mean to overlook the disappointment boys must experience when their own exploits do not match up to the virile beasts streaming to them in their bedrooms on their laptops, but this is a very weak argument. How many boys stand at the plate in Little League, having hundreds of hours of videotape of their favorite Major League slugger running through their head, only to strike out and be forced to chew on their own disappointment as they trudge back to the dugout? For all those young men who will never garner a multi-million dollar sports contract, should we protect them by limiting how many games are broadcast?

What troubles many of these young men most is that they need to pull up the porn images in their head in order to have an orgasm with their partner. They replay porn scenes in their minds, or think about having sex with their favorite porn star when they are with their partners. Dan was concerned about his sexual performance with women. He told me that "I can't get the pictures ... out of my head when having sex, and I am not really focusing on the girl but on the last scene I watched." I asked him if he thought porn had in any way affected his sexuality. He said, "I don't know. I started looking at porn before I had sex, so porn is pretty much how I learned about sex. It can be a kind of problem to think about porn as much as I do, especially when I'm with my girlfriend. It means I'm not really present with her. My head is somewhere else."

What troubles me is that this author has no attachment to what is really going on in a young man's head as he conjures up images in order to have an orgasm. We do not force ourselves to be aroused by what we see in pornography. It either touches our buttons or it doesn't. Just because i've seen thousands of scenes of two girls making out, doesn't mean that one day i give into this bombardment and suddenly find myself with a raging erection the next time Britney Spears makes out with Madonna. You either find that erotic or not.

She mentions concern for Dan who cites porn as the first and foremost way he learned about sex, but how is that fault of the creators of porn? Where are the parents in this young man's development? Why isn't she thrashing against the poor parenting that has allowed this young man to turn to a polished, for-profit media package for his "education"?

Lastly, what really irritates me is the notion that women are treated horribly in all of these hardcore scenarios, and that this only serves to reinforce the endless humiliation and degradation of women. Here's where she really misses the mark. For every scene where a girl is portrayed performing humiliating sexual acts that a boy gets aroused by, the girl is not the only one who is humiliated. There is also a degradation happening with the young man observing this.

If there is anything that has served as a single denominator in my sexual experiences, it is that the demons i force upon my willing, female partner are ones i must also grapple with. My bottom wrinkled her brow in consternation as to how anyone could gain pleasure out of divining bruises upon her fleshy buttocks, and i struggled from the opposite side of the same coin. How could i possibly enjoy such culturally-maligned practices? What kind of person does that make me? She was disturbed when my sexual fires got stoked after she pathetically whimpers for leniency. Later, when i paused, i was also troubled by this, and there needed to be a tremendous amount of soul-searching before i found peace.

Porn isn't the enemy. Just like any form of mass media, it is a tool that can be used as productively as one wishes. The enemy is an inability to critically question what you encounter. I would hope anyone who reads the posts on this site and takes issue with anything i've said would speak up. Otherwise, nothing i written is worth a single one of its words.

Matters undermind

2010-12-17T09:35:00.002-05:00

I initially wrote this as a stream of conscious note on my iTouch while riding through the underground tunnels of my adopted hometown. There is part of me that wants to just publish it unedited, as the raw thoughts that streamed into my head during my performance of the socially acceptable role called a "commuter". This way, i can provide a view into my mind during a period of "normalcy" and day-to-day activity. But, i'm not even sure this is something the reader desires, nor do i necessarily think it is all that authentic.

Why would the reader really care about my thoughts during a period of routine banality? And even if they did, are these the only representation of my thoughts that i can offer? Admittedly, the forum for the words i publish here takes the shape of one that pursues the boundaries and landscapes of my sexuality, so it makes sense that the subject of any thesis i make should also resemble that same shape. But there are parts of me that wonders if this one-dimensional character has worn its welcome. Perhaps i've lived all i could through this web journal, and the authenticity resides elsewhere inaccessible to my readers.

With that said, i present to you the following, with as few edits as i could make to maintain authenticity:

I live a double life. I have two Twitter accounts. I have two separate Gmail accounts. The same with YouTube, DeviantArt, Facebook, Tumblr, MySpace, etc. On one vein, I maintain my public, identity-laced persona, never veering past the deviant line my mind constantly crosses. While the other sprays his sexual/physical avatar all over the place. It is the best example of arrested development I can think of. Yet, I can do little about this truncated existence. Society insists I remain closeted. (is it society's insistence or, perhaps, my own?)

Meanwhile, I'm taunted by those who have managed to broadcast a public, kinky representation of themselves and I have to wonder what penalty must they pay?

FetishKitsch - They are a genuine, intimate couple who have chosen to film their kinky, fetish-laden sexual escapades. For numerous reasons (their genuineness, their attractiveness, their passion, etc.), they have managed to make a living doing this, for the most part. This is not the bit that i covet. I do not wish to turn my play sessions with my girl into a commercial venture. I've made a few photos and one video, but have no plans to expand on these efforts. What attracts me to their level of openness is their geography. They do not live in fetish-friendly Germany, or even the tolerant environs of the U.K. (or even Canada). No, in fact, they live in the slow Mid West of the US of A. They have no compunction for revealing not only their sexual tastes, but their faces and their names (assuming they are not pseudonyms). I envy their liberated approach to exposing their sexuality. Some may look at my site and think i've done my own emancipation. However public i've been, you will never find my name/face associated with the identity known as "Deity".

Darenzia - She is a bona fide fetish model. She's stunning. She's modeled with some amazing beauties and for some amazing photographers. I adored her as skin candy through the various websites and periodicals i explored. It wasn't until i found her on Twitter that i developed an intellectual crush on her. I cannot recall how i came across her Twitter feed, but it has been an absolute thrill to behold. She has a rapier, sarcastic wit that doesn't quite fit the graceful elegance of her beauty - and that's what makes her all the more interesting. She talks shit about everyone. She knows how to use the medium of 140 characters to add pizazz into the world, all the while wishing you could personally witness the life she leads. In the time that i've been following her (as myself, not Deity), there has been no less than 40 times i've wanted to reply to something she posted. I recognize i run a little bit of a risk for my "professional" self to publicly declaring through the list of those i follow on Twitter that i keep track of the comings and goings of a riske, fetish model. The only explanation i can offer as to why i do it is that i've grown weary.

I'm tired of putting one face forward while concealing another. Next year will present me with my fourth year of authoring content through this site, via this Deity persona. There is a great deal of frustration in only being able to interact with a virtual audience, meanwhile living a life as someone my closest associates only know to a certain depth. I look at FetishKitsch and Darenzia and wonder what it would be like if i melded the two spheres. Would it turn out to be what i wanted, or were all the risks i drew up in my brain factual and not exaggerations.

Am I too safe? Too cautious? Perhaps too self-important. It's very hard to determine when to play it safe and when to let go.

Constantly hiding sucks. Especially if it's just rote and unnecessary. Should I risk it and put me and my girl's likeness out there just to say "Fuck this, I'm sick of hiding."? Or should I not take the bait and stay veiled?

I do not have so much hubris to believe my little web journal gets anywhere near the notice or traffic that FetishKitsch and Darenzia get, so it may not be all that much of a risk were i to take away the masks i keep on both my girl and i.

Lately however, those have not been the questions i've been pondering. As i face the end of another year, and think forward about the year to come, i wonder how much longer i will continue to give this persona and these black walls any more of my energy.

The weight

2010-10-31T16:24:00.008-04:00

If any of you ever met me outside of the context of this web journal, you might find me to be a very complex fella, complicated with all of my nuances and insistence on the specific way i must alter my environment in order for me to be comfortable. Largely, you wouldn't be wrong with this assessment - except, that is, when it comes to my fetishes. I do not share these with many people i know. Few people who interact with me on a daily basis know how much attention and time i am devoting to thinking about somehow fulfilling my various fetishes. If they did, they would see all those other complexities for what they are - ways to keep me from succumbing to the overpowering affect certain objects have over me.

In a previous post, i wrote about a little windfall of cash that had suddenly, surprisingly arrived into my life. After making sure to take care of all the important causes and people in my life with a portion of this sum, i allowed myself to indulge in purchases that i have been waiting over 10 years to execute. I'm happy to report, i am not dissatisfied in the slightest with the result. I no longer have to fantasize about these kinky implements, nor do i have their absence from my toy chest weighing down on me like a taunting bully.

I'm now ready to disclose what some of the items i got that can now be crossed of my wishlist (i can't list them all, because a few still haven't arrived, and my girl is unaware of what awaits her).

- A pair of black latex opera gloves from Libidex
- An Eroscillator, which is something i've coveted ever since the first time i saw PD using them on his Insex victims.
- And finally, after waiting over a decade, i am now in possession of my very own vacbed

The vacbed:

It is a thing of pure artistry. I ordered it from the amazing folks over at Kink Engineering. I do not get paid to endorse their products (how funny would that be), but i can say, once the device arrived in my house (and it couldn't come any faster), i knew i was in possession of some serious passion and craftsmanship. I ordered the standard lie down bed, with breathing tube. I had them construct the frame for me, and i insisted on the top sheet of latex being baby pink. As many of you may recall, pink and black is a motif that me and my girl often employ in our play. I like the softness of the pink, especially as it relates to turning her into my Barbi doll. And i like how the black contrasts that softness, making a much starker, bold statement.

The amazing thing about this bed, and the reason why i went with King Engineering, is that it has a one-way valve, which means once you suck all the air out of the bed, trapping your victim between two sheets of tight latex, you can turn your vacuum off. And what is left is silence. Pure, delicious, uninhibited silence. This is very important, because part of the point of a vacbed is to create an atmosphere of sensory deprivation. No sight, no touch, no taste, no sound.

For this session, to increase that, i had my girl place earplugs in before she climbed inside (this also helped with what she had reported on our first attempt with the bed of a strange sensation of pressure on her ears as the air was sucked out of the bed as well as the incredibly loud noise of the vacuum cleaner). Once trapped in a tight latex cocoon, i took out the Eroscillator.

I teased her with the device, running it up her rather ticklish sides. She was an immobile prey to my advances, unable to even lift her hand to bat away my prodding touches in her ribcage. I circled her tits, slowly swirling inward towards her nipples. I then traced down her belly, until i reach the trapped folds of her mons. Immediately, she responded, letting out a long, awaited moan of pleasure that came only through the black tube providing her air. I played with her cunt lips, through the tight layers of gentle pink latex. Her hips wanted to press up into the oscillating device, but couldn't. Ever so slightly, i ratcheted up the intensity, switching to each successively higher level. Her moans corresponded with the heightened sensations, growing longer, more vocal. I adored it.

Seeing that i'd reached the threshold for what the Eroscillator could do, i decided to employ a much higher caliber device: the Hitachi Wand. Her reaction to this was immediate. placing it on her thigh, the entombed doll knew just from the vibrations that i'd grabbed her favorite toy. She pleaded through her breathing tube for me to apply it to her moist mound.

"Does barbi want me to put this on her cunt?"

Urgent noises came from the black tube, filled with desire and anticipation. I granted her request and centered the head of the wand right on her gloriously trapped lips. She sizzled with excitement, grinding with as much limited motion as she could muster in her bondage. Ever so often, i'd move the wand away, only to be met with pathetic myews of regret at the sudden absence of stimulating vibrations. I'd ask the encapsulated dolly if she wanted the wand back.

"Barbi wants the wand? Hmmm? I can't understand barbi. I wanna hear barbi beg for the wand."

The poor thing urged for me to put the wand back where it was meant to be. I would re-apply it, only to lift it again from her swollen mound. After several rounds of this, i relented and let her grind against it repeatedly. Multiple minutes later, without any notice, i shut it off.

I left her there to sit in complete statis, allowing the sensations of her entrapment to work their magic. When i felt there had been enough incubating, i released her from the bed. It was my turn to use my toy.

Dominating the conversation

2010-09-04T14:20:00.000-04:00

Recently, i was lucky enough to have fallen into a tidy sum of money that i wasn't at all expecting. I'm not a wealthy individual, nor am i poor. I make a reasonable salary, and our home is one of a few, but blessed comforts. What this all means is that this money served as an extraneous, imposing presence that couldn't simply be ignored.

I immediately called up my young nieces, asking them what it was they wanted most of all, right there, right now. One giddily shrieked "an iPod!!!", while the other shyly offered that she might like to have a brand new bike. Done, i told them. They squealed with their girlish delight. What next? I carved out a sizable sum and sent it off to one of my girl's favorite charities. Still left with a meritorious amount, i asked my girl if her dress code accoutrement needed any refreshing. How were her corsets? Fine? Hmmmm. What about her heels? Any pair in desperate need of replacement? No, all perfectly suitable. Stockings? Yes, yes, there are definitely a few pairs that she could retire and put out of their misery. However, that only ate up a few simoleons. What to do?

And then, suddenly, the thought occurred to me: I might be able to retire a number of items from off of my fetish wish list.

I exercised restraint (although not much) and hastily ordered some items that i have personally been lusting over for easily a decade's time. But here's the rub, since placing the order, i have been unable to think of little else, pondering the workshop where these items would be made, the shelves on which they sat, ready to be shipped to me, waiting, prolonging their arrival. And it has been killing me.

I have written very little explicitly about my status as a fetishist. In fact, of the 300+ posts i've penned for this site, only five contain the word "fetishist". Only 25 carry the label of "fetish", as if it weren't all that an important facet of my sexuality, when in fact it makes up the bold lion's share. It plays such a large role in how i verbalize my sexual desire, that sometimes it makes me question how "dominant" i actually am.

lg comes to mind when i make a statement like that, because she has recently revealed her own fluidity with the power roles she plays in her relationship with her Daddy. She has always represented herself publicly as a submissive girl, looking to be controlled and contained. However, she uncovered a desire to take charge, and demand worship. I applaud her exploration and discovery. This isn't exactly what i'm referring to, however.

I have no interests in acting like the submissive bottom in my dynamic with my girl. I am absolutely the Top, but i'm not so certain how "dominant" i am due to the ways in which my various fetishes can immediately take control over me. I could be in complete command of my persona, walking along the city streets, confident, bee-lining to every corner, and *BAM!!!* out of the blue, a cute girl with long, fake nails could wander into my view. All other thoughts evacuate from my single rail mind, and all i can do is stare, salivate and pant after this display of manicured perfection. Am i in control in this situation? Absolutely not. My body has an involuntary reaction to such a sight. The same goes with a gal lacing into a corset, sliding on a latex garment, or pulling on a pair of fully-fashioned thigh highs. I cannot control the instant arousal that overflows my body.

I will say it right here that having fetishes is not exactly a wonderful thing. To be instantly upturned the moment the fetishized object comes into view not only makes for some awkward public moments, but once someone learns about your fetish, depending on the character of the person, they'll attempt to either control you with it or embarrass you. Neither situation is enjoyable. I'm not ashamed nor distraught that i have these highly developed fetishes, but they do serve as a limitation, which is precisely the same impetus that a submissive might encounter when boundaries and rules for themselves have been defined by their Dominant.

The longer i live my life in this so-called realm of SM, the more i find myself turning away from prescriptive words such as "Dominant" and "submissive". They don't fit the reality of my experience. Because, as someone who deals with myriad fetishes, even though my girl goes and gets her nails done every two weeks exactly as i require (a "Dominant" decision), their appearance in my day interrupts whatever it was i happened to be doing at the time (an act of submission, if i ever saw one). They pester me. They demand my attention. And once they get it, all i can do is sit transfixed, succumbing to the overflowing desire to rapidly reach an orgasm.

In response to "Amanly"

2010-08-28T07:28:00.002-04:00

This post continues to be something that i visit in my head as i try to contemplate what it means. Thus, when i tried to respond to the comments it got, i tended to ramble on and on, and apparently, Blogger thought i spoke too freely. The system refused to publish my response to all the great comments the post got.

So instead, i will publish my response in a post. I believe the discussion to be very, very fruitful.

goodgirl,
What implications/outcomes do you believe stem out from a biological system where the male side of the species is constantly looking to spread its seed and the female side is constantly protecting its eggs? If indeed this is the system we operate under, there has to be some codified mechanisms that arise. I'd find a discussion that explores these mechanisms fascinating.

Anon,
But, as a woman, do you feel these men constantly evaluating how much they'd like to use your body for their purposes? And if so, how does that feel? Or, do you tune it out?

Sexperts,
Here's the thing that i'd love to hear your husband's take on it:

I don't think of having sex with other women - EVER

It's not that i don't allow myself to think of it out of ethical morals, it's that i do not desire sex with women. I desire to control and mold and shape them. So my interaction with strange women is instead of evaluating them on how fuckable they are, i tend to think of how much can i seduce/manipulate them to have them do what i want them to.

(There's a boatload of psychology raw material there, for sure)

For the record, i've spoken about this with other men, and the universal response to me telling them that i have no desire to have sex with random, beautiful women, is that i'm full of crap. That i'm merely holding a position that is different than others just to be contrarian. That isn't the case, unfortunately.

shape shifter,
I accept that the media holds a great deal of influence over the typical male's behavior (as it does the female's). But then, if that is the case, how did i escape that influence?

Vesta,
Well, i certainly don't exhibit high levels like i see in other men. Other men don't like to talk about problems they are having, emotions, etc. Whereas i can't STOP talking about those things - all of which is frequently categorized as a female/estrogen-laden activity.

arielmorgan,
Fair enough, social/group dynamics are at play, but why do those pressures not fall onto me?

Honestly, think about the number of movies that are out there of the young, coming-of-age boy who will toss everything away just to lose his virginity. He'll sleep with absolutely anyone who'll give it to him. I find - as much as we must allow the media influence us, we also must allow that the media are a reflection of us - that this attitude is quite prevalent amongst young men.

Here's the rub: I was in NO RUSH to lose my virginity. I turned down offers to give it away. They weren't right or desirable.

What's at play there?

Amanly

2010-08-14T09:15:00.001-04:00

What a funny word. Doesn't quite look right, does it? Almost looks like a name, but alas, it is intentional. I'm about to embark on what i hope will be a therapeutic bloodletting, so please bear with me.

I'm not a man. At least, not based on the examples that i encounter on a daily basis. I'm something that approximates a man, edging towards one, but i fall quite short of the standard. I'm a fresh-faced, bright eyed man-child. Were those of you who read me on a semi-regular basis to meet me, you would find it hard to believe that the gender i choose for sexual copulation is that of the female. I've got fine features. I'm not demonstrably tall (in fact, without knowing why, i come off as a "small individual", even though i'm an average height for an adult man) and i'm athletically slim. I've an incredibly youthful appearance and my gesticulations tend to be passionate, overdone and loud - all of these accumulated traits have branded me with a character sketch, to those i encounter, as one who is a latent homosexual. Sadly, it would be easier in some respects if i were gay, because at least i might find myself beginning to fit into some well-defined world with rules and expectations.

Alas, that is not the case. I love girls. Adore them. Obsess, ache, and even starve for them. But as far as mimicking the behavior of my fellow man, that is where we depart.

***DISCLAIMER ALERT - WHAT FOLLOWS IS AN EXPOSURE OF THE WAYS MEN ACTUALLY BEHAVE. LEAVE THESE PAGES NOW IF YOU CARE NOT TO LEARN A TRUE SIDE OF MEN***

Every regular man i've met, and have spent a reasonable amount of time around, wants to stick his cock into every single "attractive" female he encounters. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. They evaluate complete female strangers based on which "hole" they'd likely use, and what measures they would need to install in order to conceal the unattractive features that might make their conquest less enjoyable. I cannot stress how widespread and prevalent this attitude towards women is. Men who catcall, men who oggle, men who undress you in the five seconds it takes for you to walk by them - they all want to hump every single one of you.

And, this completely escapes and baffles me.

As a man, i get to witness the average male's true and honest behavior. But, rather than paint this behavior as abhorrent, i'd prefer to focus more on the difference it represents to my own. As far as i can remember, i've never seen another, unacquainted woman and want to take her to my/her bed (or behind the counter) - or even for that matter, women i know. Now, before this descends into the easy "Deity is a gentleman and a polite individual" track, i'd like to say that i'm not exactly sure why i don't have this normal reaction. I've been in situations where a typically benign, business meeting suddenly turns into an evaluation of the top 5 most attractive girls in the office, and who would each most likely fuck. I witness these assessments with a certain degree of awe, because these men are speaking in tongues in which i am not fluent. When the prattle makes its way around, and it's my turn to select which female officemate i'd like to put over the desk, i might as well be trying to explain to a French librarian what Danish cookbook i'm trying to locate - all the while speaking Japanese.

Like i said, this isn't a dissertation on how other men suck and Deity is the bestest of them all. Instead, it's a self-evaluation in the hopes of understanding what i'm lacking, and what they have versus what i don't got. I've discussed this with a few people, and most of them say that the majority of men learn this behavior - to mark any and all females as potential receptacles for their seed. That some imperative individual in their development explained to them that women - all women - are to be evaluated for their ability to get you off. But, honestly, i don't buy it. Surveying the cavalcade of men in my life who act in this fashion, i see that many of them did not grow up with a dedicated male role model (i.e dad was absent, uncles insufficient, etc.), which i think rules out cultural implications into this male norm. Therefore, with all the (unscientifically-derived) data facing me, i'm prepared to make a diagnosis:

- I'm severely lacking in some serious levels of testosterone that other men just get.

If this were true (which i'm sad to admit, it's likely not - this mystery will continue to go unsolved), simply ingesting a handful of supplements would set me on the right track to female objectification.

Wait a minute! Doesn't Deity already partake in an assortment of female objectification? Why, good man, you are correct. That objectification, reducing an intelligent, articulate woman into nothing but a vessel is quite different.

Or is it?

I ask this a bit rhetorically, but also a touch pejoratively. These behaviors my fellow men demonstrate cannot be seen as negative when you allow yourself to believe they are acting purely on instinct. And remember, they are only acting verbally, among other men. Most are not carrying out these behaviors they present as their desires.

I too have instincts or vices that do not appear socially acceptable. I have a skill for fabricating the truth - or to the layman - lying. From a very young age i realized that i could present someone with a false fact or tale quickly and believably. More importantly, i had no reservations pulling this off. No remorse. Whereas most people feel deeply guilty after doing this.

I have an innate talent for stealing. Also, from an early age, i realized i'm very good with my hands, and can conceal an object in them incredibly well. I also have strong observational skills, so i can examine my surroundings, determine if anyone is watching, and carefully make my way from somewhere with my loot even in plain sight.

Now, neither of these are all that attractive traits, and i'd be in an awful lot of trouble if i acted on them regularly. However, i have a way to dampen their impact on my daily behavior. I also didn't learn these behaviors. They came naturally to me. They are, for all intents and purposes, instincts. And just like the average male's instinct to mentally turn every pretty girl into a sex slave, they too aren't criminals for solely thinking this way.

I simply can't think like most men. And this fact makes living in a world as a man incredibly taxing and alienating from time to time. Because, let's face it, men suck, but thank goodness, so do women.

This mask

2010-08-05T22:39:00.003-04:00

There is this mask.

This mask.

This one.

This mask that i put on her.

And she disappears.

Disappears.

Completely.

I produce it out of our toy chest, and she accepts its application.

It is baby pink - because i know what effect that color has on her.

I relish the slow closing of the long zipper, sealing her inside.

I don't need to do anything. Suddenly, Barbie emerges.

My dolly. My fucktoy. My slutty lil thing cums out.

I cannot express how thrilled i am with her emergence. It not only fulfills me. It imprints on me a permanent impression of joy, peace and intense pleasure.

I feel its influence. I feel its strength. I feel its power.

And.

I.

Succumb.

#ThereislittlemuchIcandotostopmyselffromthinkingaboutthispinklatexrubberhood#

Context

2010-07-18T13:25:00.001-04:00

This goes without saying seeing as where it is being said, however, this whole game of SM goes nowhere without context.

It's not that you want someone to pull your hair, just out of the blue. That would be rather painful, and incredibly infuriating. You do not walk the streets hoping some complete stranger would yank on your submissive/masochistic chain (already!). Nor do you wish that random strangers would call you slut as you passed by. There must exist a framework through which you are open to these activities, otherwise, these scary, edgy activities we partake in would really be scary. This is my concern with all of the SM-laced torture porn you see in movies like Saw and Hostel. It has the potential to normalize acting without that context, taking steps to treat someone in these brutal ways without establishing that critical framework. And that is the really scary thing.

With the advent of free or pirated porn on the Internet significantly increasing the amount of sexual material consumed, there are many folks who are concerned with how the female porn star look seems to creep ever more and more into normal society. This is certainly supported by the media outlets that do nothing but cover the myopic obsession female "celebrities" have with going under the knife. I have equal concerns as i browse through tumblr and i encounter captions that seem to indicate every girl in every situation should be viewed as a "slut" "whore" or "slave". I might be a bit too alarming in this paragraph, but do believe it is worth mentioning. It takes a very specific, carefully crafted environment for those sort of terms to have an erotic effect on me, and most photos i see in tumblr do not achieve it.

But just as i have concerns about what these materials might say about any girl who would be interested in assuming the role of a submissive bottom, i'm equally concerned about what it seems to say about the dominant Top. If we took our cue from the torture porn movies, sadistic Tops are mentally unstable. We have some serious bone to pick with young women, and our lust for revenge is greater than our lust for our "victim".

I do not seek to spank every bottom that i encounter. I do not hanker to wrap my hands in every girl's hair and pull them to their knees. I do not wish to impose my dress code and manner of behavior on the entirety of femalehood. That would be psychopathic.

The summarizing point of all this is to say both me and my girl worked our asses off to design, establish and construct this context that allows us to operate the way we do. I don't want that diminished by someone who minimizes its importance because they don't understand, but more aptly, i don't want to see it made extinct.

Ample

2010-06-22T20:03:00.001-04:00

I can't help it. Provide me with an ass, and i'll bite it. Until it hurts. Until it REALLY hurts. Until you yell at me. Until you can't stop jerking your backside away from my mouth, and moan out of protest.

Moan. Complain. Protest. Dig in your heels. God...that's what i want to hear. I was just spending the waking moments of our morning satisfying my tactile desire to chomp and bite, but then you insist on whimpering. Do you not know what that does to me?

Moan. Whimper. Appeal to my decency. My humanity. You will soon see how i respond to such protestations. You will soon feel how rigid your verbal rejections of my behavior enlivens my groin. This erection, you cannot blame me. This is your fault. I was just biting. I was just nibbling and nuzzling. You chose to paint the air with your withering victimhood. You chose to offer your cries, your rejections.

Turning your naked ass away will not accomplish what you think it will. I will hold you firmer. I will pin you down. And then, i will bite again. I will chew your girly flesh, grind it between my teeth. Suck on it. Pull it into my mouth. Kicking your feet into the mattress will only rile me up. Thrashing will only drive the urge deeper.

The urge to pull you inside of me. The urge to force myself all over you. The urge to make this - us - one, by coercive penetration of your cries, your ears, your mouth, your holes.

It's morning. Peaceful. Early. We've got ample amounts of time. And we've only just started.

Spank me, already!

2010-05-24T23:30:00.002-04:00

This is a lesson in "be careful what you ask for."

My recent birthday had passed, and still no commemorative spankings. First a day or two, and then some more. We were creeping up on almost a week gone by, and not even something as much as a swat had materialized. My girl, apparently flummoxed (but not physically, as we've established) came to me.

"Why haven't we done your birthday spankings yet?"

"We haven't? Are you sure?"

"Stop...seriously, when are we going to attend to them?"

"Sounds like someone is rather wound up with excitement."

"No, not really. I'd just rather get them over with."

To the attending audience, this is NOT the tone in which you want to leave your dominant when it comes to presenting your perception of a celebratory ritual. You want your Top to believe you are excited, enthralled, rapt with enthusiasm. You do NOT want him to hear you approach the upcoming spectacle with a detached "get on with it" attitude. That sounds diffused, lacking emotion. It's likely he'll do something to reinvigorate the bottom. And that is precisely what i did.

A few days after her initial cross-examinating questions, i stationed myself into the bedroom and laid out several implements. I called her into the bedroom (a routine that hasn't, perhaps surprisingly, grown tiresome). Spread across the bed was a hairbrush, a rattan cane, and the floor hockey stick from my youth.

"You get to eliminate one of these. The other two will administer my birthday spankings."

Predictably (pssst...the game is and has always been rigged), she eliminated the hockey stick. This didn't surprise me. I knew how much she hated that device. And frankly, i relished the notion of even presenting it as a possible tool for her to choose to slap the back of her prone ass. However, tactically, she chose to endure the flat wooden hairbrush, and the thin wisp of the rattan cane.

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, i present to you the evidence that shows the defendant was fully aware of how many strokes were to be administered across her backside. She knew that i had progressed another year, and that this number which was to be articulated in blows upon her ass was a number much higher than her weekly maintenance spankings. Yet, she still chose two implements that would impart upon her flesh the most damage, and subsequent corporal markings. I ask you, the gallant jury, if she knew what the outcome would be, why would she choose the hair brush and the cane?

Here's where the scenario gets an added injection of predicament. I had recently purchased for her a delectable penis-shaped gag. Knowing her proclivity for oral release, i thought it prudent and helpful that her mouth get outfitted with this newest obstruction. Perceptibly beneficial for her, she would have something to channel the energy she incurs when i rain blows upon her ass, and benefiting me, i would be able to think about her mouth stuffed with rigid, rubber cock while i thrashed her. The defendant and the prosecutor both win. One thing about this new penis gag is that it wasn't the most expensive, and thus not the best designed gag, so in order to keep it firmly set in her mouth, removing the ability for her to spit the gag out (which she loves doing just to get my grit). To compensate for its design flaw, i had to latch it to the tightest possible belt hole. I didn't expect her to try to use her hands to undo, but just to be safe, i threaded one of her brass padlocks we use on her collar through the accompanying locking ring, securing it firm and deep into her mouth (when it was finally removed, a trail of teethmarks had been cut into it by how tightly she bit into it for relief).

What followed has been told many times on this site (if we're going by "spanking" as a label, it has been applied 36 times), so you'll forgive me if i attempt to not avoid redundancy.

More importantly, actually, is not what happened during the spankings. Although, they were brutal, and there was at one point where the reddened flesh of her backside did start to bleed a tiny amount, what is more important is the beautiful bruising that blossomed across her cheeks.

If i had to pick a favorite part of my birthday spankings, the application of them would definitely be up there, but wouldn't win the top accolade. That honor would fall upon the markings and the evolution they make over time. My girl takes a great deal of pride in the physical evidence of what she endured, and being a former cutter, she gains peace from watching how her body heals itself. To me, as i get to see clear, vivid and bold stripes morph into a flowing cloud of dark, violet coloration, ringed with a hue of amber shading, i'm touched by the meaningfulness of this symbol. This is our union, our intimacy. Our love and trust gets set with a vivid stroke, and over time, as we pass through life, in and out of physical contact, that love and trust transforms. This spot where i've touched her with a calculated firmness at first expressed a flash sensation, but over time, it becomes merely tender - this too represents our love and intimacy. We are very tender towards eachother, despite what it may sound like through the writing on this black background. We have some very flashy, kinky and outrageous moments, but the baseline of our relationship and our dynamic is our mutual tenderness.

By now, you might be wondering "Uhm, where's the part where Deity demonstrates how this is an example of being careful what you wish for?". Yes. Sorry about that. I'll get right on it.

It just so happens that three days after the administration of the birthday spankings, my girl had a burlesque gig. Coincidentally, the bruising following such a beating reaches its peak exactly three days after. On the day of her gig, she came to me in the morning, and asked if i'd take a look at her ass. Members of the jury, you don't need to ask me to do that, i do it all of the time - but i digress...

"Looks great, darlin. Those are coming along nicely."

"That's not why i wanted you to look."

"Then why did you, sugarpuss?"

"Because i'm dancing tonight, and there's no way i can cover this up!"

"But don't you have that body makeup stuff? That should do the trick."

She looked at me for a moment, stunned by my complete lack of concern at her position. Then stomped off. The day passed, and the evening arrived. We transported her gear to the bar where she was performing. I kissed her and wished her good luck, then found a seat inside the small auditorium, in order to watch the show.

When it finally came time for her performance, i was very excited because she had been working very hard on this number, and had made an assortment of adjustments to it that i think the audience was going to go crazy for. She looked gorgeous, and her stripping and choreography did in fact get the crowd going. All the hooting and hollering was exciting. The music reached the point where she pulled off one of her naughtiest reveals - basically, she turns her back to the audience, and with her feather fans, slowly flutters them up to reveal her beautiful, alabaster backside.

The audience went mad.

I, however, had a very different and unexpected reaction. She was absolutely correct, the body makeup didn't do the trick, and staring me right in the eyes were the two sizable, oval bruises stretched across her buttocks. And for some reason, i turned red. I can't really explain why. No one in the audience necessarily knew i was her man, and it isn't certain they connected the contusions with any brutal act. Nonetheless, i felt a twinge of guilt.

After the show, i congratulated her on her wonderful performance, and asked why she didn't use the body makeup.

"I DID use it. I applied three coats!"

Perhaps that's the amount i should've applied to my own previously reddened cheeks.

Alone again, naturally

2010-05-06T22:29:00.008-04:00

I wouldn't call it a malaise. Nor would i categorize it as a depression. More accurately, it could be labeled a disconnection. I had allowed myself to step away from a hard-earned, annual tradition of complete self-involvement, only to fool myself to accept normal conventions as the way to connect and stay in contact with the world.

Some highfalutin' language that signifies nothing? Understood. Essentially what i'm trying to offer you, the reader, is that recently i endured an annual, somewhat taxing episode, but one that shouldn't ultimately have been so taxing.

I celebrated a birthday.

I turned another year older. I aged. I advanced my years on this rock. And before any of you think that it is the superficial click on the aging odometer that troubles me, i assure you the advancing years excites me. I look forward to the days i'm 80 and i have decades of experience and knowledge under my belt that i can wield, flaunt and offer to others. My conflict with the occasion of my birthday is an existential one that has been trotted out on these pages before.

I'm rabidly anti-materialistic. I'm so opposed to rampant, errant consumption just for the sole reason that one in the affluent Western world can, that sometimes i experience heavily crippling periods when the invitation/encouragement to massively inhale material goods falls specifically and festively on my chest. Such is the case with my birthday.

On this day, everyone conventionally wishes that you get spoiled on your happy, unique, special day (aka. rained upon by material excess) and that all your dreams and wishes are fulfilled (aka. you get every meaningless trinket you've been coveting over the last six months). These folks are not to blame, for in the Western world, this is how they've been taught to celebrate their birthdays from the earliest stages of their life. As fortunate inhabitants of the affluent hemispheres, we grow accustomed to having lavish parties tossed in commemoration of us having made it from the harrowing age of six to the exacting age of seven. During these parties, we are the center of attention, and not just the foci, but in fact the target of numerous piles of toys and presents as if to say "This is your reward - these plastic tchotkes - for enduring that difficult (yet sheltered) life of your childhood."

At a very early age, i realized that this mode of celebration didn't fit me at all. In fact, my entire relationship with my birthday caused a great deal of discombobulation with my social compatriots. As each year passed, i found myself wanting to conceal the actual day i was born from those i knew. I took great care in obscuring the date when it came up in conversation, because i truly didn't want the prescribed manner that one celebrates the day of their birth applied to mine. I wanted to be left alone. I didn't want to be spoiled, and i didn't want a bunch of semi-sincere well wishers patsying me with their aplomb.

What i wanted was to be alone. Here is the root of my life's philosophy. We ARE alone. All of us. This is not meant in a way to shock and stir the senses. It is merely my attempt to label the reality we all live. Being alone is neither good nor bad. It just...is. No matter how close i feel to anyone - my girl, my dearest friends, my family - my experiences and how i perceive the world is solely mine. I cannot know what an apple tastes like to you as you crunch your teeth into the chunky, juicy flesh, nor can you ever know how that same apple tastes like to me. All of this is my own provenance.

I realized this in my college years, and i was able to self-prescribe the proper medication to handle my birthdays: for 24 hours, i would vanish. I would disappear. Be nowhere near a phone, or a computer. I would only be with myself. The first year i followed through with this, i got on a bus, whose destination i didn't know, and 16 hours later found myself in another state with no idea how i'd get back. The next year, i spent the entire day in a bathtub in one of those pay-by-the-hour motels, occasionally adding hot water to the mix. The following year - easily my favorite - i walked 35 miles along a two lane country highway. There is nothing like being on a darkened road at 3AM, just walking, by yourself. I can still vividly remember my encounter with the amazing sensation of mist sizzling on the high-tension power lines overhead, stopping to look up at this sight, buzzed from the abstract reality of it all.

Somehow, in recent years, i got away from this practice. It's largely my girl's fault. She was the first person i'd ever met who i actually didn't mind spending time with on my birthday. The more of them we celebrated together, the further i moved away from this model of pure isolation. Unfortunately, this year it caught up with me. My psyche had grown thirsty, and needed severe re-hydration. Even the promise of our traditional administration of a number of strokes* across my girl's backside to correspond with the age i turned that year wasn't enough to keep at bay those severe anti-materialistic demons. Thankfully, i remembered how to get back to that place where it was just me, by myself, isolated, on my birthday.

I'm not normal, i understand that. Who has such a convoluted, existential struggle about something as simple as one's birthday? It's just one day out of the year, just go get some cake, blow out the candles, and open your presents. It doesn't need to be so difficult. I understand this perspective, and i have faced many perplexing questions all around the theme of "Why do you have to be so weird?", followed by my favorite "Why do you have to take things so seriously?".

The answer to both questions is the same: because that is who i am.

*Stay tuned for my post where i go into more details about that spanking my girl endured, and the unforeseen consequences...

Sustenance

2010-04-25T16:53:00.000-04:00

As i layered over her cellophane-wrapped fists with black duct tape, i contemplated how much of a sadistic jerk i fancied being that night.

We'd just spent a wonderful weekend day together in the city, exploring the freshly blossoming public gardens on a pristine spring afternoon. Once we arrived home from our outing, she nestled herself onto our couch in hopes of winding down, aided by her book and a curled up feline. I attended to some incomplete matters in my bureau, fully aware of what i would find back on the couch in 20 minutes time. I looked in on her, as i moved my activity to the kitchen, preparing to start the evening's repas. There she was, collapsed into a sleeping ball of beauty, her pretty mouth pursed partially open. Her breath hummed into the solemn air, its peaceful buzz reaching my ears. But alas, were it seeking some noble fraternity with my thoughts, it would feel betrayed. Instead, it would've found a twisted, malevolent factory, rapidly churning out the perverted designs i would later use to torment this slumbering angel.

Accomplishing what i needed to in the kitchen and setting the slow simmer into motion, i retreated to the bedroom and began to lay out the numerous apparatuses that i would employ. Now, there may be some of you out there who envision the delicate slumber i was about to interrupt and think my behavior selfish - and you wouldn't be wrong to think that. The part that's even more wicked is that i didn't care. By the time i'd placed the last item on the bed, my mind buzzed with electricity and that familiar, rich flavor flooded in my mouth.

"Sweetheart...it's time to wake up."

"Mmmmm...wha...what?"

"Come with me back into the bedroom."

There are those who have a parent that gave them a look when they were a child wherein they could immediately identify what was coming next. Over the years of our relationship, my girl has learned that when i summon her to the bedroom, she's not entering the chamber where she sleeps in the evening, but instead the dungeon i've constructed.

I grabbed her tiny, delicate hands and fashioned them into tight balls. I took her left hand and wound several layers of tight cellophane around it, encapsulating her digits. I then tore off long strips of black duct tape, smoothing each over her clubbed mitt, making sure no plastic wrap showed through. I asked her to try to wiggle out of it, but she confirmed what i already knew - trapped. I repeated the same procedure with her right hand, and then retrieved the patent leather hood and neck corset from its stand. I snickered to myself as i loosened the hood's laces, pondering the next 60 minutes. After properly positioning the hood and hitching up the neck corset, i said goodbye to my girl, then latched the matching blindfold over the now completed toy's head.

I took some time to enjoy the spectacle of my fucktoy. This doll who sat before me, naked, speechless, shiny black head concealing all of her features, with matching shiny immobilized hands was no longer the sleeping beauty who'd just ten minutes before been resting on the couch. This was Barbie. And Barbie needed shoes.

"Stick out Barbie's feet."

I slid the latest addition to Barbie's wardrobe onto her pointed legs, gliding the zipper to the top. My goodness, the shininess of these boots still managed to amaze me. I positioned my dolly onto the bed, on her belly, legs spread open. I latched a locking leather cuff around each of the doll's wrists, and then fastened these up onto the headboard. I grabbed the Hitachi and laid it in a supine position in between the fucktoy's legs. I placed the dormant head right against Barbie's cuntlips so that she would know it sat right there.

"Okay. Now be a good little toy and keep those legs spread. I'll be back in a bit."

Barbie grunted, indicating frustration that the magic wand wasn't animated before i departed. I scooted off to the kitchen, checking in on the meal. Everything was as i expected. After about ten minutes of additional prep work, i returned to the bedroom.

Greeting me, like a good little toy, was Barbie's glistening pussycunt, aimed upwards in the air. I grabbed the wand and turned it on, and pressed it to my dolly's naked thigh.

"Is this where Barbie wants this?"

"MMMMmmmmppph!"

"Oh? Barbie wants it higher?"

"MMMmmmmmmmmmmmmm-hmmmmmmmm."

I brought the gyrating knob within millimeters of the swollen cuntlips, holding it right there.

"Does Barbie want to feel the wand?"

"MMMMMMMM! MMMMMMM!"

"Beg, Barbie, beg."

"Mmmmmm-mmmm-mmmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!"

I pressed the wand against the fucktoy's lips, and immediately Barbie began to feverishly grind against the implement. I held it securely in place, as the dolly's hips thrashed against the white, silicon head. Four, maybe six minutes of this, i could begin to see the glowing crimson color of an oncoming orgasm building in the toy's cunt flesh.

"Does Barbie want me to turn the wand to high?"

"mmmmmmmmmmmMMMMmmmmmmmm..." This was a deeper sound, scraping off whatever intonation the toy found on its vocal chords.

I responded by deepening my own voice, and when i spoke, i could feel the devilish grin painted all over my mouth.

"Beg. Beg, Barbie. Show me how badly the toy wants more."

Barbie thrashed on the bed, trying to shove as much of the toy's pussycunt onto the vibrating wand.

"Mmmmmmmm-MMM-MMM-MMM-MMM!!!!"

I easily interpreted this as wanting more and flipped the switch to 'high'. Immediately, hums poured out of Barbie, constantly flooding the room with sexual purrs. In my head, i counted downward from fifteen, and when i reached zero, i flipped the wand off.

"gggghhhhhhhggghghh!!!ggghh!!!"

Apparently, the fucktoy didn't approve of this. Good thing Barbie was in no position to decide.

"I've got to check in on dinner. Be a good toy, and keep those legs spread."

Barbie pleaded with me. The dolly wiggled its perky little ass in the air, drawing an illustration of where i should re-apply the fun stick that had just moments before been alive. I wasn't persuaded.

The food by now filled the air of our apartment with such robust flavors and perfumes. Stirring the pot, i concluded that we only had a dozen or so minutes before it was completed. I took out the dining china and the corresponding stemware. Meticulously, i set the table, making sure each dish and fork sat the exact distance from each other. I lit the candles for the meal, and corked the wine. I stopped and gave real thought to any details i might've missed.

Nothing. Nothing it seems.

Barbie, i thought, must be famished.

awake

2010-04-10T09:13:00.000-04:00

I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
–Pablo Neruda, “Twenty Love Poems: XIV”

I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

I want
to do with you what the soprano does with a melody.

I want
to do with you what light does with water.

I want
to do with you what time does with wine.

I want
to do with you what the explorer does with a map.

I want
to do with you what voltage does with light bulbs.

I want
to do with you what wind does with a rock face.

I want
to do with you what a camera does with a landscape.

I want
to do with you what a cat does with a purr.

I want
to do with you what your eyes do with my stomach.

I want
to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.

Appliqué

2010-03-20T12:07:00.010-04:00

I assume that those of you who make the trek to TransformHer, do so in part out of an affection for obsession. Witnessing the material that emerges from someone's obsession is one of my all time pursuits. I adore the poets who are so fixated upon a single word that they use it in numerous poems, re-use it, repeat it, dissect it, and string it together in an endless train of circuitous discovery (see Gertrude Stein's exposition on 'full', 'exactly' and 'he').

One of my biggest thrills when i first moved to my adopted hometown was the regular trip to the Guggenheim Museum where the most comprehensive collection of Kandinsky art exists. My initial encounter with Wassily's art had me react with revolt at the possibility that someone might've plagiarized my own drawings. I wasn't aware of the time period this man had created his artistic embellishments, so my hubris allowed me to believe my own geometric sketches wherein i explored, expunged and evaporated the circular shape had been completely original. Learning that he'd trotted out his own obsession with the curvaceous geometry nearly 100 years before me not only put my mind at ease, but a distant connection with a foreign, long-passed stranger developed in my heart, so that when i first was able to see his work hanging in the gorgeous air of the Guggenheim, i reached out to it, as if it were the output of a dearly departed friend.

To say that i've been obsessed with the ballet boots i purchased for my girl would be as tame as saying that the Sun is a moderate lighting device. No fewer than 10 times daily, since we've received them, do they enter into my mind. The images of them that i took to post to these pages still sit on my mobile, and as if they were pictures from a nursery, i visit my "babies" regularly throughout the day. As in the past, when i've acquired new kinky accoutrements, i remain wary of "blowing my load" prematurely by too frequently implementing the latest device in my toy chest. Truth be told, this is an academic understanding. Inwardly, i don't care one bit.

The first evening we had them, i made my girl give them an impromptu try. It was scintillating fun watching her slide her naked foot into these black, shiny stallions. I remember that i placed myself on the far end of the couch, restraining myself from grabbing onto her left leg and jerking the other pair on hastily. She could hardly stand in them (which wasn't a surprise), but that didn't matter. They immediately changed the way she looked, the way she thought of her legs, the way i thought of her. In ballet boots, especially knee-high, you cannot look normal. You don't even resemble a human. You've left the terrestrial species once your toes serve as your only contact with the ground. Gushes of erotic energy flooded into my body. So much that even after i'd expended multiple volts of it by fucking her naked-all-but-the-boots body, i buzzed for hours afterward.

As days passed, i fantasized about the boots, me putting them on her, my girl wearing them around, as well as the numerous torments i'd put her through as she did. Outwardly, i tried to appear indifferent to this footwear, referencing them only occasionally in conversation with my girl - i didn't want to acknowledge the realistic hold they had over me. However, on the inside, i felt strangely subservient to them. It was almost as if i was no longer in control.

And then another Friday came upon us. It was time for some form of correction. The long week had ended and we had both earned this playful moment. In my mind, i conjured up numerous scenarios for us, purposely trying to avoid the bullying presence of those delectable shoes. I wrestled with their influence for awhile before finally relenting. After all their insistence, they would hold a central role in the evening's events. In greeting my girl at the entrance of our apartment, i asked her for her preference.

"Which would you prefer: swats or rope?"

This game, like all of them with her, was rigged. I knew that neither one posed the most pleasing of experiences for her, but even as she pondered her plight, she definitely did not detect the ace i hid in my hand. At the opportune time, i would slap this on the table.

"Swats."

I sent her to the bedroom to strip. I viewed the time that existed between this moment and the point in which i would grab the long white box from atop her armoir as if it were a decadent wish about to come true. Long ago, she had grown accustomed to my desire to keep her on her toes. Only now, the literal aspect of this fully realized volition presented itself as an interminable possibility.

I retrieved the boots from their case, and handed them to my naked girl. Without skipping a beat, she carefully tugged them onto her feet. I helped her upward and aided her promenade to the end of the bed. She grasped the black iron of the footboard with more industry than she normally did.

"Point it out."

God, what a site. Her delicious, pale skin pouring over her round cheeks and hips, collecting in the dark, sinister chalice of these boots. Her ass suspended in the air with an agility not typically viewed - i suspected it had to do with the extreme angle of her toes and calves. I viewed her from all angles, marveling at an image of something i'd lusted over only in the professional photographs of others. Because of my salivating lust, her backside received a sensational beating, however, due to the air in the chamber sizzling with arousal, she took each blow with esteem. Uncustomarily, i shortened the duration of her spanking, only because i couldn't hold out any longer.

I positioned her in the bed on all fours. The stiletto of the heels pointed at my swollen erection, but before i mounted her, i stopped short and did something i've never done before. A compulsion welled up inside of me, a need to worship her boots. I bent down and with as much passion as if i were embracing my girl, i kissed and licked the shiny, patent leather encasing her legs. My eyes closed for a moment as i did this, opening them again only to continue on with my dream.

Indications

2010-03-13T16:09:00.004-05:00

You would think at this stage of the game that i don't need further evidence of my position on the dominant side of the SM coin. And honestly, it's largely true. I don't seek further validation of my place in this dynamic (despite the myriad reasons that crop up, reminding us that we're still not in the "green zone"), yet i cannot stop those instances in my life where such validation occurs.

We were preparing ourselves for our dinner date. That evening, we would have the pleasure of sharing a meal with meg and her beau. My girl was rifling through her various outfits, trying to find the one that wouldn't overstate her appearance, but would also not misrepresent it. In the end she chose to wear her tuxedo corset, with an accompanying long, black skirt and heels. I remember that i needed to remind her of the exchanges meg and i had engaged in regarding this double date, only because these details are largely left omitted from her, and that it would make for smoother conversation if she had more background. One of the things i'd mentioned was that i'd like her to discuss the phenomenon of cumming on command with meg.

"Why's that?"

"Why's that? Well, i think it would be really interesting to - just bring it up. You know this is something i'm interested in."

Already, it became evident to me how this topic would be something that wouldn't have my girl's full attention, thus making it all the less likely that she'd bring it up over dinner. I sat a little while and fumed over this, knowing that i was in an untenable position. Certainly, i could force my girl to chat with meg (who she was just meeting for the first time) about her ability to cum on command, but there would be one thing that was severely lacking in the discussion: my girl's desire to cum.

It's true. My girl doesn't have a burning desire to masturbate. In fact, it wouldn't be a complete misrepresentation to say that more often than not, i've suggested that she go into the bedroom and masturbate several times more than i've ever "caught" her masturbating (truthfully, such a discovery hasn't happened). Believe me when i say this, i would LOVE it if i were to "catch" her curled up in a fetal position on our bed, making the dirty and nasty with the Hitachi shoved firmly between her legs. Alas, it just isn't her priority.

This doesn't mean we don't have an active, feral sex life. Quite the contrary. But what it does mean is that i've never been able to withhold orgasms from her as a method of correction or punishment. Honestly, were i to ban her from cumming for a week's time, she'd simply look at me with a look that registered one single word:

"Really?"

Turning back to that evening, i reminded her of how meg is one who really responds to the withdrawal of permission to orgasm. She finds it both frustrating and exciting. I waited...let a few beats pass into the air, to see if my girl would offer her accordance with this point of view and then i remembered, it doesn't have the same impact on her.

And that is when the reaffirmation began to materialize.

"Darlin, what do you think of the idea that i might forbid you from masturbating?"

"Well, i think the idea is interesting. I really like the idea of somehow being controlled, even if it's not something i regularly do."

I smiled, and then i thought about it myself. How would i react if my partner suddenly decided that i couldn't masturbate for a week, a month, or even an entire year. I WOULD BE PISSED. And that's when the clarity plopped me hard upon the head. I know for a fact that i wouldn't react in any sort of positive fashion should someone decide that they wanted to control my masturbatory behavior. And, honestly, i can't think of a clearer indication of one's side of the SM coin.

Even my girl, who doesn't really enjoy or have a drive to masturbate, found something stimulating in the idea of control. Whereas, i bristled, bucked and battled with the idea. There might be those of you out there who feel that this is just an isolated example, but for someone who isn't looking for reasons to define myself as the dominant in my partnership, this one came across loud and clear.

-------------------------------------

For the record, we didn't speak about this in our outing during our dinner date with meg and her amazing beau. It didn't even occur to me to bring it up (nor would it have occurred to my girl - NEXT time) because we were having too much fun breaking the ice and chatting about topics all of us do not normally get to chat about in person, live, and engagingly.

They're here

2010-02-28T12:54:00.007-05:00

I imagine that the hands that built them had no idea of the power the raw materials they used to craft them would possess. They were simply cutting along the lines of the pattern they had by now memorized, sending them off to the room filled with whirring sewing machines, to be stitched and shaped. To all the hands who had held them so far, they were just objects, articles of clothing - weird, even unnatural certainly - but simple garments nonetheless. Out of the factory, onto the truck that would carry them to the distribution center, these shiny assassins lay in domicility within their long, white cardboard box.

They still, at this point, were well over a month away from arriving into my hands. Final negotiations with the saucy supplier over which method of payment, followed by shipping preferences were to take place. And then, they would make their long journey from way down under, eventually, gradually, aggravatingly slowly to my door.

I conjur up a storyline that says somewhere along their voyage to me they were momentarily re-routed, landing themselves in the darkened lair of a malevolent sorcerer. In his hands, he would slowly dip them into some black magic liquid, chanting ancient, mysterious words, fully possessing them with a demonic spirit that would be unleashed upon the mortal in whose hands they would eventually land. This is the only way i can believe that they would have so much power over me once they finally did arrive.

I'd come home from work, having finished a very, long day, looking for some peaceful quiet with my girl. To my surprise, there, awaiting my arrival was the long, white box. I knew immediately what lay inside. My hands burned as i held the box and made the ascent to our apartment. I may not have noticed at the time, but slowly, a pool of saliva had begun to collect in my mouth. Even through their case, their power seeped, ultimately corrupting my mind. By the time i put the key in the door, my skin was tingling, my ears buzzing, my blood coursing. I quickly shut the door behind me so as to keep discreet the immense erection that had expanded in my suit pants.

Reason #48 for my anonymity

2010-02-21T12:58:00.004-05:00

I had so many other things i planned to write about. Much more enjoyable things. Juicy. Tawdry. The kind of things that perhaps are the sole reasons most of you come to visit. But no. Instead, i had to read this article.

Anthrax. Whoa. Dangerous stuff, sure. But why exactly is it being mentioned on these pages? When i first read the article several days ago, it brought back many memories of 2001. Of that time, living in my city that had been attacked by terrorists. How we were just starting to adjust to the new landscape, how we were just starting the work we needed to do in order to heal and then - POW - those letters delivering their vicious white powder landed at several Broadcasting HQ's here in Midtown and at the doors of several U.S. Senators down in Washington D.C. More panic and terror set in. We didn't know how much we would need to recoil and fortify against the evils out there. It was genuinely a very scary, completely unsexy time. But it's not those memories that push me to write on this article. No. The reason came further down the page, when i came across the "profile" the journalist decided to fabricate of the alleged anthrax mailer:

They discovered his penchant for taking long drives at night, sometimes mailing letters and packages from distant spots under assumed names. They discovered his obsession with a sorority, Kappa Kappa Gamma, and with images of blindfolded women, hundreds of which were found on his computer, the report says.

I can understand the relevance of mentioning his penchant for taking long drives at night wherein he would drop something in a postal box several miles away. It establishes a pattern of behavior that can explain his ability to send those anthrax-laden envelopes from Princeton, NJ. I can even vaguely get why they divulge his obsession with a sorority (although they do not say which campus - i can't imagine he was just obsessed with this particular sorority, nationwide, but i digress). What i cannot understand for the life of me is why this journalist saw fit reasons to mention his "obsession" with images of blindfolded women. WHAT RELEVANCE IS THAT????!!??

I was so incredibly perturbed when i came across that part of the article. Of course they had to find some S&M aspect to fully complete the psychotic character that would commit such heinous acts. I closed the article. Forgot about it as best i could, and went on with my day.

But this bullshit statement wouldn't let me rest. It kept popping up in my head. Shoving its way into my eye, poking me. Causing me to grow increasingly irritated. I even tried my traditional methods of relieving anxiety and frustration: Run Like Hell. The weather has been gorgeous, so i took to the park and ran until my sides screamed. And yet, it didn't seem to do the job because i could still feel anger for this journalists irresponsible words in between my gasps for air. This wasn't just some pandering tabloid, looking to jolt its pages with some scandal. No, this was the New York Times, the supposed standard of journalistic excellence.

Why is it that whenever a beat reporter is looking to fill out his column, he sinks into the muck and chooses to capitalize on the alleged's collection of S&M porn? Why in articles about great men who have accomplished heroic deeds, we do not hear that they too had a vast collection of images of blindfolded women.

"In addition to raising millions of dollars for relief efforts in Haiti, George Clooney likes to relax and let off steam by picking through his sizable anthology of women gagged by rope."

I can quite easily say that i have way more than hundreds of images of material that, should a journalist with half a brain find them, could paint me as the Most Dangerous Man Alive. It's articles like this that remind me that it's not safe to express who i am in a public forum. That it's not safe to attach myself to these acts i depict on this site, despite the fact that every one of them are of a consensual manner. This is why i must be anonymous, despite my efforts to present SM as a responsible and loving expression of intimacy and vulnerability.

And to be honest, there are days i don't think it's worth it.

Putting pressure on myself

2010-02-07T15:09:00.002-05:00

The other day i was looking at a new corset maker i'd discovered, going through the usual evaluation process:

critiquing the corsets shape/construction (some really good S-shaped items, perhaps too many pipe stem corsets for my tastes); dissecting the corsetier's dedication to tightlacing (clearly, Fran is a practitioner herself of corset training); and ultimately will i purchase one for my girl (*sigh* yes, i probably will).

There is no doubt that my girl adores corsetting. In truth, she doesn't devote as much free time as i do to the research and exploration of the artform of restraint. I'm the one who usually introduces her to the latest device or accoutrement she will likely sport, and i understand that is how our dynamic has been constructed. But, i also understood that there are deeper, more integrated motivations for my passions.

I love restraint. I love bondage and confinement. I always have, but here's where it may not be exactly clear: i love restraint for myself. I recognize that hearing a Dominant male offer that in addition to restraining his submissive girl, he also likes to apply it to himself may result in a little head-scratching. I might even risk my membership in the Great Hall of Fierce and Ferocious Dominants by admitting these appetites. Alas, risk i must.

I've spoken in the past about exercising my own restraint, but what i'm referring to in this diatribe isn't self-control. In fact, it might make more sense if we used the slightly different word of "constraint" or also known as the application of physical pressure.

It's important that i convince you that this isn't something that i've just been walking around with in my pocket. In fact, it's somewhat of a surprise to me. I've been binding up pretty girls for so many years, i never stopped to recognize that there is some of this gesticulation that i like to do to myself. Let me be more clear.

As long as i can remember, since i was a kid, i have put tape on my fingers, wrapping it around each digit as an athlete or guitar player might. I love the constriction, but i also like how it looks, aesthetically. I also really enjoy how it feels to peel it off my skin at the end of the day, slowly revealing the ring of moisture-parched flesh underneath. Extending this practice, i have a collection of leather and velcro straps that i've accumulated over the years that i will, on occasion, wrap around my forearms, my biceps, or even my mid-section.

I remember one of my favorite things to do as a kid on a Saturday afternoon was to sneak down into our basement and burrow under the piles of freshly washed laundry. The more compression i felt, the more secure and at peace i seemed. I would lay there for hours, even falling asleep. I didn't want to do anything else with my weekend, just rest underneath all those layers, imagining that i was in some kind of factory, waiting patiently in the mold, until the moment when my raw materials had cured and hardened.

Even today, i still like wearing ultra-tight underwear, pants and shirts. I enjoy the rigidness and the restriction of the tight-fitting garments, but i also like how it makes me feel more cohesive and put together.

Oddly, none of this has any submissive applications. I've never wanted to be at someone else's whim, bound by them. That actually irritates me just to even think about it. No, for me, this is something i'm in complete control of, because it's not the position of power this places me, but the sensation of compression that i'm after.

That said, i do look at my girl, mummified in several layers of plastic wrap and duct tape with a little nostalgia.

He said to shine them for the Fat Lady

2010-01-29T14:54:00.004-05:00

He's not exactly the reason i've chosen to write. In fact, i came upon his work later than most. I still remember when i first received "Nine Short Stories" and "Franny and Zooey" as a gift from a friend. I thought, how peculiar that he gave me these and not Salinger's more well-known book "The Catcher in the Rye", which i hadn't read either. I thanked my friend, but i don't think i ever properly thanked him. I couldn't know how those books would alter my views on the world.

I haven't fully processed what his passing means to me. I expect the impact will last and grow as time passes. I will, as i do every three months, turn to one of his books for comfort and revelation.

As a frequent writing exercise, i would try to craft a sentence or two that would tell a very vivid story. I saw them as a challenge J.D. made to me personally.

In his honor, i leave you with a few:

- She wrinkled her nose while chomping on french fries which she pretended were her nagging mother's fingers.

- Through the congested grove of trees, i could see two lovers resting on the sandy river banks, playing with eachother's hair. The girl laughed, then sighed, her head falling onto his arm.

- His sunburnt face looked up at me as i passed. Squinting, he smiled from the right side of his mouth. He offered me a slice from his apple. I told him that i wasn't hungry. In fact, i was incredibly hungry.

- She skipped, leading with her right foot, while her left hand dangled from the two longest fingers of her hurrying father.

Burlessque and less

2010-01-24T09:39:00.008-05:00

I am a lucky man. I really am. Let me start this post by establishing this fact. I do not want the subject i plan to address come back to bite me in the ass because my manner sounds like someone who doesn't understand and acknowledge their blessings. I count them, i give thanks for them, i even try to share them with others. I'm a nice sadist (so i've been told).

As i've reported here many, several, numerous times, my girl and i are connoisseurs of the raging neo-burlesque scene. We had been having so much fun at shows, that eventually, my girl caught the burlesque bug. She started taking classes at the New York School of Burlesque, and because she is an incredibly ambitious creature, she soon found herself performing at the very venues her and i had been frequenting.

Flash forward through the past 6 months. On the weekends - sometimes every weekend, other times she'll skip a few - you can find my girl teasing her butt off somewhere in the city (this is actually the explanation as to why there has been very little in terms of updates on Kitty's site - for those who've been wondering). It's quite wonderful.

That's it. That's the story.

Not enough? Think i'm leaving something out? You're wondering, what's all this "i'm so lucky" song and dance disclaimer? Fine. I'll proceed.

A lot has happened to Deity throughout his girl's metamorphosis from spectator to performer. It's not a matter of not supporting her desire to do this, in case some of you are wondering if that caused any shrapnel in this process. Quite the contrary. I'm incredibly supportive. Any time she gets another solicitation for a gig, i'm the one who offers her excitement and praise. However, the reasons for my support have shifted over time.

Admittedly, when the notion first arose that she would dive into the feathery and glittery world of burlesque, i was all agog about spending my weekend evenings exposed to all that girly shake, shimmy and sway. I thought, "Wow, i get to see hyper, ultra-feminine nudity on a weekly basis, AND get free drinks (that's right, spouses of dancers are often comped on cocktails)? How could i lose?"

***To pause for just a moment, it is important to note that although it may come across as explicit here to my readers, it was not directly assumed that i would be in attendance to all of my girl's performances. And there have been a few occasions where i've not been there in the flesh while she struts her stuff up on stage, but there hasn't been a single evening where i haven't met her at the bar/cafe/lounge after her show, and escorted her home. This is where my motivations to support my girl's passions dramatically shifted.***

Two facets emerged. The first one is the easiest to describe. It is one based on an entrenched desire to protect my girl. I'm not sure how other girls do it, but in this city, in order to maximize your dance card, you pack in as many gigs as possible in a night, and shuttle between them via the subway. In order to do this efficiently, you must be fully glammed out, which of course attracts attention (both polite and unwanted). I understand that women attract this kind of attention on a daily basis, but when you are wearing 2-inch long fake eyelashes, a dress that is 120% about glamor, and patent leather stilettos, you tend to receive a year's worth of wolf whistles in an entire evening. Once this reality was in place, it became quite clear what fed my motivations to support her art - to make sure she wasn't harassed.

But, it turns out, there are not just wolves in the strangers on a train, or those in attendance at a show. There is shiftiness in the producers and curators of the various showcases she pops in and out of. Because i receive a great deal of fulfillment from manipulating and cajoling others with my charm, i naturally slid into the role as my girl's manager. This entails me whispering into the patron's ear during intermission, regaling an engrossing story to the bandleader, or chatting up one of the other dancers - all for one purpose: booking another gig for my girl.

All this activity means that some sacrifice had to occur. Last night, that sacrifice made itself very evident. I'd stationed myself at my "usual spot" at the bar - near the maitre-d, but not too far from the barkeep. It was during a conversation i was having with the restaurant's owner that i realized my own desensitization/assimilation. We we're chatting about my girl's upcoming number - what volume level the track should be, etcetera - and the whole time i hadn't even realized that just five feet away from me, world-class strip-teasing was taking place. It was true. When i took a moment to reflect on it, i confirmed that during other shows, where the silky flesh would otherwise have tantalized me, i was too concerned with finding the best spot to film my girl's act or worried that the lighting wasn't carried out correctly.

Here's my exit. I should grab it while it's clearly within my grasp.

There have been a few occasions, mind you, where she's been made to feel uncomfortable by one of the (usually drunk) patrons, but i won't go into detail about how i responded to those moments (not just yet).

For the most part, i relish the fact that i get to say this is my life (although, i don't get to say it to too many people - another post?). As i said, i'm very grateful, but i'd be deceiving you if i led you to believe that this was what it would be like to have a burlesque dancer lying next to you in bed.

Complete absurdity

2010-01-15T11:30:00.003-05:00

In order to look at the subjects of my posts, it takes a great deal of humility on my part. I speak constantly, repeatedly and roundly about the acquisition of material things to satisfy a very eccentric and highly-selective sexual appetite. I'm aware that my kink involves the use of and play with objects (both man-made and human), which gives the perception that i must have a bottomless wallet (or enormous personal debt) and an equally soul-less joy in buying/shopping/collecting.

Couldn't be further than the truth.

My mind is a battlefield under constant struggle between the opposite poles of a simple, ascetic life and the glossy, shiny paraphernalia of my fetishes. I do not own many books, music albums or movies, having reduced my once vast collection in order to have as few material items as possible. I believe that this world, this big stone exists for us to do more than just make a pile of products and trinkets. I'm troubled by how many lives i see dedicated to consuming material goods. I witness dozens of people toiling away at jobs that do not fulfill them only so they can catch the latest sample sale and parade around with this season's Gucci handbag. This confoundedness permeates my life.

I tend to only buy clothing for myself when i absolutely need it. Since it is my goal to contribute as much beauty to this world as i can, i make sure that the few outfits that i possess are handsome and well-appointed. However, should any of these outfits suffer a casualty, it pains me a great deal to have to shop for its replacement. I have literally entered a clothier, looked at a single shirt for 30 minutes, only to convince myself that i can do without and exit the store. A week will pass, and it is clear that the old shirt cannot be mended anymore, and i will trudge back over to the store, to finally make the necessary purchase. But this struggle doesn't end there. The instant i leave the establishment, with shopping bag in tow, i am overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. There have been occasions where i have bought and returned repeatedly the same item, over, and over again.

I have imposed this same leanness to my girl's wardrobe. Whenever she acquires a new dress or pair of shoes, she knows she must rid herself of an existing item - which at first she absolutely loathed. However lately, she has resigned herself to this rule's dominion, altering the timing of her own purchases to follow the shift in her tastes, happily replacing a pair of boring, old pumps with a newer, flashier pair.

At the moment, i am contemplating a very sizable purchase of an item i have been obsessing over for many, many years. Which means, we still haven't addressed the fog of hypocrisy that sits abated off the coast of Deity's shores. Believe me, when i say this, i'm very aware of the contradiction my words present - sentence after sentence. But, when it comes to something that satisfies my kinky appetites, i can almost not help it. When i look at this list, it takes every ounce of restraint in my body to not splurge and purchase every single item on it. Where is this chaste, virtuous and conscientious soul who cannot bring himself to buy a CD of music he's coveted for 11 years? Instead, he is replaced by a bandit who has put these abstract constructions on a strange tier that he believes will bring him euphoric jollies and thrills once he reaches it. (Let us not start the discussion about what happens once he has acquired all of those toys - what then?)

Perhaps, to some of you, this struggle is completely absurd. And that may be true. However, when you see the images coming to us of the struggles and hardship of those victims of the earthquake in Haiti, it makes you question whether or not we are really hear just to buy stuff.

A year of a little less lustful quality

2010-01-07T08:30:00.003-05:00

As i trained myself to no longer append "09" to the end of the date and instead use "10", it occurred to me that it was time to summarize the year that has passed on this site. I suppose the title i've chosen for this post is a bit misleading. It might imply that there has been an overall deficit in erotic thrills in my life, but that is definitely not what i mean to imply. As i scanned the rolls of posts that i penned last year, when comparing their amount to years before, i noticed that the number was considerably less. I went from an inaugural output in 2007 of 98 posts, to an unimaginable 125 the next year, then plummeted in 2009 to a measly 68. There are several factors that led to this.

The initial factor comes through very clearly when i look at the posts in the first quarter of 2009. While i'm quite found of the post i wrote about where i turned my girl into a stool, something feels off when you notice i followed it not long after with another favorite of mine involving my gambling with her ability to control her jaw. Even i can see that these are not that different from eachother. Inwardly, i was sensing a bit of redundancy on my part, but i didn't want to mention it. I was hoping i could overcome it. I made it through February, whose highlight was a piece about how the body's reactions can betray the mind, but then i hit my first road bump. I turned to my readers for inspiration, and the posts that followed, while worthy enough to read, don't sound particularly inspired. Another month followed, and the only post in that time that continues to excite me was one in which i compelled you, the reader, to give into temptation. Otherwise, it was as if i was a visitor at my own site. I spoke with nostalgia about those in my past in a clinical tone, one that sounded as if i hoped to squelch any of my emotional connection to the site. I've been in enough failed romances to know what that signals.

The end.

And it came.

I stepped away. I gave myself space. I took the time i devoted to writing on The Lustful Quality and spent it not writing at all (which is something that was COMPLETELY new for me. I've always written). Instead, i took many a walk and spent as little time as i could in front of a computer screen.

A week passed (this may not seem like a long time, but you see, i had been regularly posting, on average - when not on vacation - every three days). Then another. And soon it was a month. I didn't think about the site all that much, which i think was very good for me. But after a point, i started to miss authoring my thoughts as Deity. I still lived my "life" as Deity, but i didn't so much document it as him. And i started to miss that. The thing that i missed the most was writing without pause, without any concern for who was reading my output. That's how i wrote when i first began TransformHer. I just wrote. I didn't know if three people would read it let alone thirty. It was in fact how i'd been writing for the decades prior to me starting this site.

Finally after almost two months away, i came back. Two things immediately changed about my output. I posted more infrequently, which was such a relief to not feel like i had to stuff anything i could throw together into these digital tubes once three days had passed. More importantly, i posted with much more reckless abandon.

You can hear that in this post. It's not the "hottest" or "sexiest" post, but it's exactly what i wanted to write about. I also posted more poems. I haven't the foggiest idea if those are the reasons why you come to read my blathering, but i had to think if it wasn't, you'd move on. Now mind you, this reckless abandon did have its drawbacks.

I got in some serious hot water when i attempted to take a shortcut with a post by piling three disjointed ideas into one, and not really taking heed of the sensitive ground i was treading in that assemblage. Asserting that i was merely addressing the difficult topic of the marks of femininity with a non-chalant, carefree manner in the comments to this post only continued to make the situation worse. Thankfully, my girl came to my aid, to provide deference on my behalf, which i rarely seem to possess.

It was, in the end, a real-life lesson of the principle that if you decide to say whatever you want without regards for your audience, they can take either issue with you or take their eyes elsewhere. It was an important lesson to absorb. For here as well as elsewhere in my life.

My favorite post in the last three months, and the one that really symbolized to me my "return" was my contribution to lg's orgasm project. I felt challenged by the task. It took a great deal of thought about what i wanted to say and how i should construct it, and all of this mental acuity stripped away any target other than myself. In the end, what i posted was for me. I wrote on a subject that i'd always wanted to explore in a manner i'd always wanted to hear.

At the beginning of 2010 (Two-thousand ten or Twenty ten - i'm still undecided), i'm not sure where i'll take Her Erotic Demise. I've really enjoyed my expansion to Tumblr, my audience is very different (read: more males) than it is here because most of what i post is images rather than words, so that difference is an interesting experience. Also, I've been pondering adding a vocal component to this site in the form of a podcast.

Whatever i decide here at The Lustful Quality, i assure you that there will be a lot more, with a particular emphasis on quality. Thank you all for your patience and your visits.

Outside

2009-12-29T13:22:00.003-05:00

Since there's no space, come, let us kiss and squeeze;
Or kiss anyway, let's start with that, the kissing, please.
Because it's better than not starting, you agree?
We're good at kissing, kissing all over, pleasantly

And if we kiss, we may as well do more.
For it's just you and me, no one else outside that door.
How is this? My hand? There, holding your breast?
Do i go too far? Or perhaps, should i go the rest?

What pulse is this, that greets me at my touch?
Quivering lips, fingers, hips, sighs of way, too, too much.
Yes, i think i will go on, plundering right here.
And those outside will not abide our passions, my dear.

Where else would i put these thoughts?

2009-12-19T16:50:00.000-05:00

- Oh pretty girl on the platform. I stand near you, and not so abstractly or subtly gander over at you. It can't be helped, you see, because your ribbony head of curls caught my eye as soon as i went through the turnstile. And well, i could dip into my satchel and pull out the trade papers i should probably be studying, but then there you are. Pretty. Curly. You haven't yet shown me your eyes - oh my...you are pretty. Incredibly. Surely, you see me. I'm no more than just a few feet from those two big blue beee-yoots. This isn't a game. I'm merely interested in looking at your visage, the same as if i were to stare so intently at a Van Gogh landscape hanging in the Metropolitan. I want to be near that beauty. I want to just stare and admire. I want to be inspired. To be filled with the joy such beauty imbibes you with, to then turn around, and hold the door for that elderly lady, to offer a pleasant smile to that stranger waiting for the bus near my apartment. I want to be charmed, and hopeful in turn, be charming.

- I do so much walking in this city. There can only be so much entertainment one pursues in the headphones plugged into their ears. I offer to those of you who read these words the opportunity to chime in on whether the next behaviors i describe are creepy or endearing: I'm rushing, late (by my terms, which really means i'm right on time) for an appointment. I weave in and out of the stragglers on the sidewalk. I don't shove anyone. It's all on me. I duck, bend, shift, scoot and bow - all to make my way through a congested alleyway. I look at my watch every few steps. How can it still only be that time? Seriously? Boy, when did minutes go so fast? And then, suddenly, without any hesitation, i stop in my tracks. Ahead, there is a beautiful woman who has stopped to study the tantalizing window display at a dress shop. My steps are methodically slower, angling my approach so that i walk behind her by just a few inches. Right as i'm upon her, i close my eyes, suck in the air around her through my nostrils just so i can sense her perfume. My forward progress carries me a few feet past her, as the remnants of her bouquet pay their last respects upon my nostrils. And then, without hesitation, i resume my hurried march to my appointment, with 100% certainty she has no idea what her lovely perfume has done to lift my day.

Top me, oh Top me, please.

2009-12-14T14:44:00.004-05:00

Ever since my girl got me an iPod Touch for Christmas last year, i have developed a gradually growing addiction for podcasts. This format has an incredible versatility because the shows can run the gamut of slick, professionally produced media spectacles to the low budget dude-with-a-mic-in-his-living-room-just-chatting. Couple that with how they are delivered to me, only in my ear, an air of intimacy has built up around my listening experience. As it shouldn't be a surprise, i've gone in search of kinky, SM podcasts, and to my surprise there are a good number of them. It's quite an enjoyable thrill to queue up one of these sexual broadcasts, board my morning subway train, and listen to tales of dykes packing dicks, bisexual sex parties, or a latex couples' weekend - all the while surrounded by my completely oblivious fellow commuters.

One thing i've noticed, and it's echoed here in the kinky blogosphere, is the absolute dearth of straight, male dominants/Tops hosting their own podcast (and if indeed there is a show, please feel free to let me know. I'd love to tune in). There is an endless number of quality shows consistent of females of all sexuality, and there are even a number of submissive males. Where are the straight male Tops? Does our viewpoint not excite enough of a following that a podcast hosted by one would find its way into my iTunes store? Some of this is self-explanatory. There just isn't an audience for the male perspective, especially when that perspective is trying to entice a female audience.

And that's when another thought occurred to me. In a good number of these shows, there are plenty of stories of men paying women a fee for a session of sadistic domination. None of these stories go in the opposite direction. Why have i never heard of a pro straight, male Dominant?

Economically, this means there isn't a market for submissive women to pay some male to practice his sadistic side upon them. I'm not sure what this says about the genders. Automatically, I draw conclusions that it is a product of our male-dominated society. But that is my intellectual assessment. Emotionally, identifying with male sexuality, I feel like a creep. That I have the internal capacity just as a male to need sex so much that I would dole out money feels gross, feels a little unhealthy. Admittedly, the perception is that boys think about sex more than girls. I'm told WAY more than girls, but that is the kind of gross over-generalization that i care not to make on these pages. That being said, it makes sense, or at least the absence of this kind of media isn't a shock. Maybe male Tops have to maintain a certain mystique that the oral/aural presentation of a podcast doesn't fit? Maybe they are those of few words, and thus couldn't fill the timeslot allocated for a show. Maybe trust is a bigger deal with women, and men will put themselves in considerably riskier scenarios just to blow their load.

I genuinely cannot offer an explanation for why there isn't a bevy of submissive females who need to be under the firm hand of a sadistic Top so badly that they are willing to pay hard-earned cash, or, at the very least, tune-in to hear him talk about it.

Myjaculate

2009-12-08T08:10:00.001-05:00

No one's ever asked me to discuss my take on the male ejaculatory orgasm, let alone write an entire detailed post about it. When lg asked me if i'd be interested (rather mousily, and i'm sure she was nervously tracing a circle on her desk with her finger as she waited for my answer - but, alas, she didn't have to trace for too long), i was ecstatic. That's one topic i just never thought others would be interested in hearing my perspective on. I immediately replied yes with as much haste as possible.

And that's as far as my momentum went.

I struggled to find a place where i could begin. Talk about ejaculating? This is one of the few things that i've kept rather privately to myself. None of my partners have ever been particularly curious about what it's like to eject semen out of a penis, and frankly, the subject has never come up with anyone else. That doesn't mean i don't have a desire to spray my thoughts about cumming all over these pages. This indicates that i've struggled to organize my impressions in my head. And, truthfully, i think it's important that this make up part of this post. I'm still shocked that anyone would want to hear about a confidential sensation i've been experiencing nearly everyday for over a quarter of a century. My orgasm is such an emblematic part of me, as integral as my breathing, which makes it all the more difficult to parse and spread out onto a slide to be examined underneath an expository microscope. So, in order to tackle this project, i thought that i would employ a technique that i've used in the past to expound upon a subject. I've broken it up into three, ever expanding sections.

The first: Masturbation, pt. 1 (aka. thrilling)
As i've mentioned before, i really enjoy handling my penis. Sometimes, whilst mid-fondle, my somewhat flaccid member will start to respond and either out of boredom/curiosity/mischievousness i'll choose to push it further. I'll slide my penis between my fore and middle fingers and just wiggle them back and forth, inciting blood to rush into this appendage. Slowly the skin tightens, stretches, and expands. Very shortly, my erect penis is pointed in the air, slanted upwards, throbbing and bobbing in connection with my heartbeat. It's at this point where if i'm sitting, i will stand up. The preferred place for this form of ejaculation is a bathroom. I will lean (if i have privacy) against the edge of a sink, resting the outer rim of the bowl on my thighs, a few inches beneath my crotch. If in a public bathroom, i will pick a stall, and lean against the toilet, bracing my weight right underneath my knees. Regardless of where i am, the posture is all the same.

For this orgasm, all i'm interested in is cumming. It's not about being sexually turned on. It's merely for the sensation of the orgasm, but more importantly, the rush of thick, viscous fluids through the vas deferens, spurting finally out of the gaping hole on the tip of the penis. I will stroke my penis with my entire hand fully enclosed around it, applying more pressure on the underside. My hand glides over the flesh rapidly, causing my wrist to slam into my pelvic bone, and my thumb and forefinger smacking against the rim of my circumcised head. This feels incredible. Every nerve ending in my penis awakens, anxiously anticipating the rapid physical stimulation of my pistoning grip.

When i feel an electrical sizzle on both sides of my groin, i know i'm close. Here's where leaning against a toilet or sink comes into play (something i discovered completely by chance and to my benevolent grace). Timed perfectly with the rising crescendo, i will lean as far back as possible, maintaining my fast strokes, and tense my abdominal muscles as much as possible. This distributes the intense, pleasurable sensation of the orgasm all throughout my mid-section, building and building until finally, deep inside, i feel a pull from within. As if the semen could not be contained, it jets out of my penis, and with each expulsion, a concluding jolt of exquisite warmth explodes across my torso. As quickly as it was begun, it is over. The blood recedes, the erection subsides, and i am left to dispose of the creamy, thick evidence of my debauchery.

The second: Masturbation, pt. 2 (aka. uncontrollable)
Here enters the vast amounts of pornographic material i've accumulated. There is no mistake when i sit down (usually in front of the computer) what i have on my mind. I am already aroused, i've either awoken this way in the morning, which frequently happens, or just suddenly my chemical composition shifts, and i must satiate my customarily-high libido. When i am in this state, there is no need to manhandle my member to encourage blood flow. Blood floweth already. Blood rageth. I am achingly, obliteratingly hard.

In fact, i'm so aroused, that i must be careful in how i touch my penis. In this state, very little needs to occur for me to blow. I will cue up whatever girl being debased/objectified/minimized material i seek, and lower my undergarments. The difference in firmness and size in this state as opposed to the one i previously described is completely palpable. My penis is so swollen and engorged, it flushes a deep violet, purple tone. Starting the media, i take my fingers and lightly rub the underside of my genitals, caressing the (surprisingly) soft, skin, tracing over the wide, flanged head. This minimal contact is amazing. I can feel nerve endings in my spine react to this, crawling up my back and into my neck. It takes every ounce of restraint in my body to not grab a hold of this staff and start thrusting down on it.

When i do finally curl my meaty fingers around my penis, i just choke it at first, squeezing it which in turn causes a neural shudder to tremor through my core. This shakes off any civility left lingering in my foreground. In response, my jaw assumes an inhumane stance, with my lower teeth jutting forward. My breath purchases savage lungfuls of air from the atmosphere. The tendons in my hand scream "STROKE!". The rigid muscles in my forearm concur yelling "STROKE!". My eyes want to see this. My ears want to hear it. My nose wants to smell the thick, pungent musk of my beastly arousal. Playing over and over in my head are the images and sounds of the girl's hopeless plight.

When i begin stroking, blasts of euphoric current shoot down my thighs, past my knees. Jolts of pleasure sever through my crotch, using my penis like a lightning rod, boring megawatts of electrical sizzle deep into my prostate. With this much frenzied stimulation, it won't be long before i cannot hold back any longer. Depending on how long i want to go, i must cease immediately any contact with my penis in order to prolong my release. I will wait a few counts, then quickly jerk on my penis a handful of times, bringing me quickly back to the edge of that delicious waterfall. Then, once again, i pull my hand off. I breathe sinisterly, letting the flow of sadistic juices nourish my mind. I can sustain this dance of edging towards the crescendo for hours, or sow my seed in just a few minutes. Regardless of duration, my eruption remains the same. A sensation of live spirits collecting in my chest signals the commencement, and as these wild creatures join together and push through my veins, my penis begins to violently clench, spasming upward, setting off the ejaculatory impulses. Semen surges through my penis, spraying gush after gush of thin, briney liquid all up and down my torso. This can last upto a minute, and even after completion, the inelastic firmness remains for several minutes more.

The third: Fornication (aka. transformative)
This one was the toughest to write about because truthfully, there exist so many derivatives of this orgasm depending on which female orifice is used, which position she is in, and what other stimuli (i.e. sex toy, bondage, roleplay, fetish, etc.) is involved (or lack thereof). To attempt to capture them all would take numerous posts dedicated to each nuanced version (i.e. her mouth; lying on her back, head over the edge of the bed; blindfolded). I fear the intricacy of each one, although truly enjoyable research material for me to collect, would prove to be less than interesting to my readers. To boil this form of orgasm down to its essence, it is simplest to view this as the hands-free, genital-only, fornicating orgasm.

This is the most intrinsically male of the orgasms, and probably the one that most females are traditionally in the dark about. The masturbatory ones are about toying, frigging, diddling, playing. This one is serious. This one demonstrates the biological and psychological requirement that males must penetrate in order to fertilize the female. This orgasm is the most fulfilling, without a doubt. I gain a deep, intimate connection with my partner, but in addition to that, i embody my ingrained dominant tendencies the most when i use my penis to penetrate her. I'm sticking a part of myself inside of her. I'm inserting me into her. I am joining with her by going within her. I make a hole in her and fill it with me. Once inside of her, the most magnificent, incredible pleasure consumes me. That she has accepted me inside, has adapted to my fleshy intrusion, enveloped me, cradling my most sensitive and yet stimulative appendage satiates my desire to overcome, topple and conquer her. She has surrendered to me in this moment. I am her conqueror, she is the vanquished. I have a lavish, celebratory feast upon her banquet.

In retrospect, this act seems to imply the need for an apology on my behalf. It is done with such force - the kind that when attempted without the heightened hormonal state, would be viewed as barbaric and violent - and after a certain point (of no return) with zero regard for the recipient. In the beginning, when i first dabbled in the coital arts, i knew i held back out of trepidation for the horribly, hungry monster i knew i could become, sparing my lover this ghastly sight. But as i realized i couldn't control it, as its strength grew, sustained by the few droplets of sanguine blood in the water it sensed, i gave up all (completely futile) attempts at reining it in.

But i think that's what makes this such a delicate and treasured experience. Because of these moments, however long they last, we are forcibly removed from the artificial chains of civilization and humanity, and are instead treated as two galaxial bodies whose particles are violently slamming into eachother, creating new, unabashed passion.

We are ultimately and without any restraint, creating life.

Boy training

2009-11-20T15:10:00.005-05:00

A commenter on this post made an excellent suggestion that someone tackle the lazies of the male persuasion. Honestly, i just love getting suggestions for posts, and couldn't pass this one up.

Without further ado:

I feel for the most part that this entire site, despite its nomenclature of "transformher", has been dedicated to the ways a man can become a better man. I speak frequently about the need for restraint. I celebrate the virtue and necessity of patience. I subscribe to the notion that what is done here, what i speak of is more than just about sex, but about finding an inner peace and connection with my partner.

But ultimately, the matter that sits at the core of my entire psyche is the unceasing creation of beauty. I know this word automatically has feminine inferences woven into it. Rare is it that someone would say "that man is beautiful" and even if they do, it is something that causes you to take express notice. Additionally, for my sake, beauty is not just physical attractiveness. In fact, we limit the power and prevalence of beauty if we only use physical characteristics as its ingredients.

How does one contribute beauty to the world? With the list of things i chose to highlight in my other post, you'd think offering something beautiful was arduous (you mean i have to wear high heels in order to contribute positively to the world?). Actually, it's quite simple. Just care. That's all you need to do. Care about other people, care about your loved ones, but most importantly, care about yourself.

I'm surrounded by men who have no problem oggling some cute thing fluttering by in her little mini skirt and wedges, all the while their potbellies pour onto the table from where they stuff their mouths with the worst, nutrient-deficient, fat-laden food on the planet. They demand that their women look a specific way - tiny, thin, attractive - yet they give no thought to how they themselves look. They dress like the clothes they own were as inconvenient a formality as the wrapper on their greasy cheeseburger. They take no pride in their appearance, whether it is how little attention they pay to their grooming habits (i have seen some collosally awful haircuts that men seem to care very little about) or how homogenized they've made their outfits (can anyone tell the difference between what a guy wore on Monday to what he wore on a Thursday?).

Let me provide a little background information to round out the context to where i'm coming from. I was raised on a ranch. My father did not wear bespoke clothing. His regular outfit was a plaid button down and some heavily-worn jeans. And that suited his vocation. However, whenever he found himself attending some public function, he made a point to be dressed as nicely and handsomely as possible. He never once was found at a social event not dressing or looking his best. Doing so spoke about the welfare of his family, but also provided other folks with a charming, dashing gentleman to occupy their visual sampling. He knew that there was a bigger purpose than all of us. And i remember giving him a great deal of grief as a boy on Sundays, when i couldn't understand his insistence that i wear my navy suit to "dumb ole church". His simple answer was stolen straight out of a J.D. Salinger story (a fact i didn't learn until years later, on my own, reading "Franny and Zooey").

"Do it for the Fat Lady."

As men, we ask a lot of our women. We ask them to be seductive co-eds. We ask them to be blushing brides. We ask them to be strong, pregnant ladies. We ask them to be diligent partners, and impeccable mothers to our children. All of this is fine and warranted, only if we ask of ourselves on magnitudes much, much higher. We are not under the same pressure that women are to look, act and dress a certain way.

But if i could slow things down, for just a moment, let me speak solely to my very, small male audience.

Do better.

Do and be better. Don't let fatigue allow you to let things slide. Don't let laziness be your calling card. Don't let busyness interrupt your ability to offer more.

If you need encouragement from a bigger force, know for certain that the world benefits when you take the time to care and acknowledge that your contribution on this day is to a much larger and spiritually fulfilling effort.

Medium well done

2009-11-15T09:30:00.001-05:00

The media

In some ways, it's responsible for framing my approach to my kink (some might even say it's responsible for the formation of it - fine, i'll allow that). Whether it's from viewing Popeye cartoons at a young age that involved Bluto kidnapping the hapless Olive, only to offer us brief scenes of her torture, then interrupted by the hero's spinach-laden rescue or the climactic finale of Young Sherlock Holmes where the adolescent gumshoe, in the nick of time, saves a mummified damsel from her waxy entombment - my introduction to the abduction of the female as a way to interact and commute with her came from this artificial construction.

I didn't know what i was seeing. In my real life, i wasn't seeing actual evidence of any kinky proclivities from the flesh and blood around me. There is no doubt that the media i encountered had a major impact on my sexuality. A certain image stimulated a part of my brain that up until that point was just agitated, an itch i couldn't scratch. But once it saw this image of a beautiful girl bound tightly by rope - ahhhhhh, relief! Suddenly, a visceral connection is made between my internal, secretive appetites and those broadcast through a wider medium of others. When i would encounter these familiar scenarios as a teen (again not in real life, but usually through a magazine or film), my mind made a pleasant association with the image before me, further reinforcing the hope that this kink of mine may someday be savored.

Because i am an animal with appetites, once i learned that there was a source for the kind of sustenance my lust required - the media - very soon, that was where i directed a great deal of my time and energy. But here is where it gets skewed. Since i was not producing any media (except for the written word, which is mostly all you encounter here), i was merely a consumer of what was available (still to this day, they have not made the erotic movie that i'd deign to make if i had the proper funds). Over time, the unabashed consumer will find their appetites and desires altered, reformed to fit the flow of consumable materials. So to was the case for me. I found myself aroused by things i never expected to be stimulated by, and after awhile, it became difficult to clearly delineate what were my own native impulses from those implanted by the media i voraciously consumed.

When i finally decided to create this site, i realized i was making an active step to participate in the very realm that forged my own internal desires. I contribute to it here by sharing my words and posting photos/videos that illustrate my point of view - but that's just it, they are just my points of view. I am just one (highly opinionated) man with a particular bent on the world that occupies a rather small corner of the kinky blogosphere. I cannot compete with the onslaught of images and stories that other high-profiled, commercially-focused and well-financed put out - nor do i ever intend to try to compete with this, but i recognize that i occupy a spot in the constant, unending stream. Even though, recently, me and my girl embarked on the exciting endeavor of actually creating media (photos specifically) of a professional nature (already, we've made it into a few publications), our transmission is a mere trifle compared to the largest and loudest voices out there.

It should also be stated that i continue to view SM media constantly, repeatedly, and emphatically. It is a daily treat for me - one in which i'm able to shut down when i realize i've wasted too much time plundering through the digital channels. One thing to note, however, is that the media is persistent and non-stop. We're under a constant barrage of imagery and motion that attempt to reinforce and stimulate deeply held fascinations of the opposite sex and the erotic theatre (for largely profitable enterprises), and it's up to us to decide what we're willing to let influence our psychology, and what we're willing to toss into the trash.

Help Wanted

2009-11-10T17:20:00.005-05:00

The Lustful Quality is spinning off - yet again. I've got a super, secret project i'm working on and need some assistance.

Consider this a call for the first ever TransformHer internship. Throughout the existence of this site, i've never really asked much from my readers. But, now i'm appealing to you directly. I am limited in my html/graphic design skills, and need someone who has some free time and interest in helping me with this project. I have concept ideas in my head, artwork that i've produced and other things already, i just need the right skills to set it in motion.

So, if there are any of you interested, please submit an e-mail (to: dominantdeity (at) gmail) and a brief description of your skillset (don't think i need to see resumes).

Kitty's Response

2009-11-03T22:21:00.004-05:00

One of the things I love about my man is his frankness, but sometimes it comes out the wrong way. In our relationship, I'm generally in charge of pleasantries like sending thank-you notes, remembering to bring a bottle of wine to a dinner party or offering drinks to guests the moment they enter our home. It's not that Deity is not thoughtful--I assure you, he is an incredibly generous person. But sometimes, his strong opinions trump his empathy and sensitivity.

Obviously, his last post was far from "rather benign" as he claimed in one of his responses to comments. It touched a nerve with many of you, and if I didn't know him better, it would have riled me too. For starters, he's not a woman. He doesn't walk through the world actually wearing the false eyelashes he so adores, and yes, they do take some getting used to, not to mention lots of practice. He doesn't wear a corset, walk in heels or put on makeup every morning, so from an outsider's perspective, his instructions and assertions as to how to do these things begs the question, "Where do you get off?" We do argue about this from time to time--I'm huffing and puffing up a few flights of stairs, he teases me, I shoot back with little patience that he's not the one with his ribcage forcibly compressed four and a half inches.

I explained this to him when discussing the responses to his post, and once I pointed out how his writing can read from a female perspective, he understood that, generally, women bristle at being told how to be feminine by a man, and explained that this was not his intention. He said, "But all I'm saying is do it the right way." I said, "What's the right way?" He answered, "Whatever looks best on you. Whatever you're happy with. I just don't like sloppiness."

And that's what I think is missing from his post. Ultimately, he doesn't mean that everyone should go for a 1950s look or wear false eyelashes, a corset and heels every day. (I certainly don't. I think I would be blind and have tendonitis if I did.) What he is really railing against is women who take no pride in their personal appearance, and who forget that part of the reason for taking care of yourself is so that you feel good.

If your heels give you great pain and are making you walk uncomfortably, take them off; they're clearly not working for you. If you're not adept at putting on makeup and don't care to wear it, or practice at it, then don't. It's not you. When undressing, it is a little more fun to do this simple task in a way that makes you feel good--whether you're working it slowly or are more of a bodice-ripper type. If you're going to do something, anything, it's worth putting some effort into it to do it well and bring you happiness. As for the corset part, I think it is part of his fantasy that he knows how to do this better than me. He doesn't, because I know when it feels right, and I have years of practice. But for most people, someone else--their partner?--is the one lacing them on the special occasion that calls for a corset. (You can probably guess that that was the section which had me stop and take a deep breath for patience).

Of all the generalized, blanket statements Deity makes explicitly in his post, the implicit one that is clear to me as someone who knows him well, is that this all comes back to his belief that men and women alike should strive every day to add some beauty to the world. I feel safe saying that most people are at their best when they feel their best, and are making purposeful choices about themselves and how they act, and I know Deity agrees with me. This is the point that is lost when we, as women, read his post and hear yet another man telling us how to act. Too many women have heard that for most of their lives. By no means do I intend to suggest that those who were offended have no right to feel offended, I only wish to offer that there may have been a miscommunication. Deity's been writing this blog for years, and this one post is but an aberration from his otherwise articulate writings.

(Another point: Try not to take him so seriously. He gets off on being cheeky. Case in point: His blogger name is meant as a joke.)

--Kitty du Vert

Girl training

2009-10-29T17:52:00.006-04:00

There are things that i should not know better how to do than women. Simply put, there is a deficit of femininity on display in this world, and i find it to be a travesty.

- Applying makeup
I should not know how to properly paint a face better than a woman. If it is your choice not to wear makeup, that is fine, but if you do - PLEASE WEAR IT IN A FLATTERING WAY. The absolute lazy way i've seen women apply makeup is atrocious. It doesn't end up accentuating their features, but draws a sharp spotlight on their impatience and lack of care in how they look. Give me five minutes with a girl, and i can show her how she can make her visage appear porcelain and flawless.

- Walking in heels
If you're going to go through the taxing experience of wearing heels, please, please i implore you, look like you enjoy wearing them. Today, i saw a woman (the impetus of this post, actually) in knee-high, black leather boots walking as if she were completely inconvenienced by her choice of footwear. There was no sway in her step. No lilty flow. No playful roll of her hips and ass. Her legs in those boots looked like lumber. If you choose to wear these exquisite items, please don't make me take you aside and provide you with a tutorial about how you "Lift, Move, Drop".

- Lacing a corset
I know that the majority of you have never worn a corset - neither have i. But why do i know how to lace one? Because i've made the plunge and gone somewhere that carries corsets (real ones, with boning and lacing) and have wrapped them around a girl's frame and gone to town. You can only get to this point of knowing how to actually tighten a corset once you take the plunge. I've said it before and i guess will continue to have to say it, but there are fewer, more elegant pleasures than witnessing a girl look at her figure for the first time in the mirror laced. She looks hungry, famished, and most importantly, powerful. Fire burns in her eyes as her hands smooth over her exaggerated, hour-glass figure. Please make this one of your "once-in-a-lifetime" goals - if you are woman, to try, if you are man, to witness.

- Putting on false eyelashes
It's almost comical how easy this is for me, and yet i'm the one, not her, that gets to relish the outcome all night long. My girl has only begun to put her own false eyelashes on. These are somewhat similar to wearing a corset - you can only know their power once you've tried it. And good thing is, false eyelashes are available cheaply and more abundantly than corsets (try your local drugstore). My biggest piece of advice is: patience. It takes time to get it right, but when you do...WOW

- Taking OFF your clothes
Gals do you not know how much power you hold over the men in your life simply by the way you take off all the basic undergarments you've chosen to wear throughout the day? Please, please, please tease him when you de-robe. Take your time, tantalize him. Go slow. Look at him, let him know that you are aware how much this drives him crazy. You are his candy. Don't just rip off the wrapper. Take your time revealing the delicious girl underneath.

The number of times i've had to spend time teaching a girl these (and more) secrets of accentuating their femininity is really heart-breaking. Everything i mention above should be met with excitement and fun. None of it should be seen as work. And yet, i continue to see example after example of women who half-ass their look, when with just a few steps, they could have men eating out of their hand.

I think i should open an academy, but what would i call it?

you are safe

2009-10-24T19:05:00.003-04:00

there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
there is nothing in my hands
there is something in my hands
lay your head close to mine
lay your head
lay your head close to mine
lay your head
dangle
dangle that beautiful hair
dangle it
dangle
dangle that beautiful hair
across my lips
as i nap
as you watch me nap
from above
brush me with your beauty
pour over me with your eyes
safe
you are safe
for were i awake
i would
topple
you

The Dungeon

2009-10-13T14:02:00.010-04:00

Eyes Wide Shut - Banned Orgy

We had to descend several spiralling staircases that carried us from the Burlesque Showcase room, through the Dance floor/Couples Room, to an external staircase that exited the old cathedral for a moment, finally delivering us to the bottom level - the cellar. Immediately, upon penetrating the low-lit chamber called "the Dungeon", you heard the song from the ritual scene in Eyes Wide Shut floating in from speakers throughout the level.

I walked arm and arm with my girl as we took a tour around the room. To our right several lounge chaise lined the wall, above them hung lanterns that sprayed the wall with stars of light. Following the cocktail bar against the far left side, we ventured into the area where the play equipment resided. As we progressed further, the rhythmic sounds of someone being flogged met our ears before the image of the naked girl with her outstretched, bound limbs greeted our eyes. A group of people had gathered to watch this corporal feast, as they gobbled up the moans and cries from the sweating submissive which sang into the air. We stayed for a moment, watching her Top switch between leather whips and hard wooden paddles, producing a gorgeous red tint to her upper thighs and buttocks.

There were many delicious visual feasts for our eyes to munch on, but seeing as she'd been standing on 6-inch heels for over three hours, my girl requested we sit to rest her feet. We resituated ourselves in the first chamber we'd visited in the Dungeon, finding a comfortable couch in the corner. There were others sitting in this area, and we soon found ourselves in polite conversation. While we were talking, a handsome blond man approached my girl.

"Madam, you are so stunning. May i please worship your feet?"

She looked over at me, subtly indicating our roles. He clued in very quickly and turned to me.

"Forgive me. Would you allow me to worship her feet?"

I nodded, and waved my hand in my girl's direction. He knelt at the base of her legs and very gingerly lifted and rested her right leg on top of his bended knee. With equal amounts of delicacy, he carefully undid the ankle straps to her shoes, and gently removed her custom-made patent leather heels. He wrapped his hands around her latex stocking-clad ankles, then slowly began to massage her fatigued tissue beneath the rubbery layer. With methodical movement, he kneaded her foot, every once in awhile bringing it to his mouth where he would softly kiss her toes. My girl relished the adoration, letting her head fall backwards in stimulated bliss. The entire time he paid her attention, he kept whispering to her how beautiful her feet and legs were, and how grateful he was to be able to worship them.

He had just finished his devotion when a gorgeous Italian girl tapped me on my shoulder. Through her pouty, sensuous lips, she asked me if i would allow her to also worship my girl's legs. Out of the corner of my eye, in a small little alcove off to my right, a couple was quietly, but hungrily fucking. I watched their undulating bodies for a moment, then returned my attention to the beautiful raven-haired signora, offering her my consent. Her method was different than the blond gentleman's. Where his touch was thorough and concentrated, her's was sensual and graceful. She brushed her fingers up and down my girl's shiny rubber thighs, barely applying any pressure. Each stroke traced a path that reached further and further up my girl's leg. The worshiping femme nuzzled her cheeks against her goddess' gams, closing her eyes in ecstasy, kissing their entirety. I adored watching her lavish attention on my latex doll. I've always found the idea of a girl servicing my submissive bottom in this fashion incredibly erotic, knowing that it wouldn't go any further than this.

I thanked her for her homage, and helped her to her feet, then dismissed her. I had an urge to turn the evening in a different direction. Earlier, in our tour of the space, i caught sight of a stripper's pole in the middle of the play area. With this in mind, when my girl returned from a brief trip to the rubbergirls' room, i rose, preventing her from taking a seat. I wrapped my arms around her, lavished her neck with miniature kisses, and then tapped upon, with purpose, her rubberized tush three times.

"Are you going to spank me?"

As a sign of confirmation, i walked in front of her, holding her hand, leading her to the pole. We weaved in and out of voyeuristic groups gathered around various devious activities. It was perfect, i thought to myself, because my girl had taken several dance classes, and one of her favorites was her pole dancing class. She excelled at seductively negotiating a floor to ceiling pole in 6-inch heels.

I gathered her in my arms, as we stood looking at the shiny, brass bar, and whispered into her ear,"I want you to give me a slow, enticing dance. Make me want to tear you down from that pole."

She stepped up to the pole, grabbed it with her hand, then took a slow revolution around it - the entire time she kept her bright eyes affixed on me. Swinging her legs around, she slowly lowered her body down the pole, straddling it the length of the descent. The longer she danced, the more spectators she attracted. But despite the growing numbers, her eyes never left mine.

I could barely contain myself. The crowd looking on, her fiery movement, the intensity of her concentration - all of it pushed my arousal to a peak. Without hesitation, i broke the barrier between performer and audience by approaching her as she swayed up there on the platform. I positioned my hands on either side of her hips, holding her still, both of us not moving at all.

I mouthed to her, "Turn around."

She complied.

I stepped closer, right against the pole.

"Grab the pole with both hands, and bend over. Point your ass out to all of those people watching you."

I moved behind her as she grasped her hands around the brass rod. Pushing her legs outward, i positioned her feet exactly where i wanted them. Her shiny backside beckoned me, but i tried to hold on as long as possible, letting this scene get as much maturity as possible. My hand flattened into a paddle shape. In my peripheral vision, i could see that several people had stopped to watch. This reality gave my hand a tremendous momentum as i swung it through the air and landed it on her rubbery cheeks.

"PHWAP!!"

She emitted a tiny "oof". I was immediately taken by how different it felt to spank her ass while it was tightly constricted under a thick layer of shiny latex. When i hit just one of her cheeks, the impact seemed to resonate throughout the entire area. It felt foreign. It felt artificial. It felt incredibly, incredibly erotic. I continued to spank her through the rubber, every once in awhile gazing out to the onlookers. I wanted to see if anyone felt a desire to give her a few swats of their own. Too timid perhaps, no one accepted my non-verbal invitation. Unfazed, i continued to shred into my girl's buttocks, enjoying the recoil her whole backside offered after each slap.

Slowly, as if the lights in the surrounding room were being extinguished, the background dimmed in my eyes. I no longer noticed those gathering. My hunger to inflict upon my girl had sky rocketed. I reached down at the bottom hem of her latex dress, and pulled it up, revealing her pale, sweat-soaked flesh. The aroma from her now freed arousal incited me. My hands acted without thought. They pinched, they clawed at the mounds of meat hovering before me. I spanked her repeatedly, skin to skin, while she clung to the pole. And then, abruptly, i stopped.

I had to. The next step would need to take place back in our hotel room. Over many, many hours.

Worn out

2009-10-08T13:12:00.006-04:00

Whenever anyone has asked what my highlight from me and my girl's recent trip to London is, i've hesitated in my response. Quite honestly, i could pick many favorite memories from my inaugural visit to the Square Mile. We saw so many things: gloriously old museums, eccentric and unique boutiques, my favorite soccer team's hallowed grounds, a great assemblage of pubs, and much more. But, it is not the sheer number of great attractions that gives my answer to their question pause. Instead, it is the "inappropriate" nature of our vacation's most treasured souvenir:

Our attendance at Torture Garden's London Fetish Ball

Some of you may remember (and the naughtiest of you might even chuckle) my post about the preparations i needed to go through in order to secure our attendance of the Ball. The biggest stress that followed once our latex goods were ordered and delivered was safely packing them into our luggage prior to our departure and then handing them over to the ever dutiful TSA. I had serious concerns this tidy little investment in rubber gear would find it's way into the back screening rooms at JFK airport, and never see the light of day again. What a sigh of relief that came rushing out of my lungs when i gathered our valises from the luggage carousels at Heathrow and saw the cable tie i put on each zipper completely in tact.

We spent the day of the event caroming from one parlor after another of feminine delicacies, finishing our tour in the neighborhood where my cherished football team plays and also where my dear friend who helped us get into the Ball resided. Originally, the plan i'd arranged with my comrade was for my girl and i to bring over our whole get-up, and then we'd all get ready. This sounded like a lot of fun, but ultimately impractical, when i considered how many different girly accessories and tools we'd have to haul from our hotel to accomplish my doll's latex transformation. We settled for splitting a pizza while watching a soccer match - which was the perfect antidote for my excited nerves in anticipation of the evening's festivities - and then my girl and i made our way back to our West London accommodations.

Getting ready for fetish events is always such a thrill, because i adore witnessing my girl's metamorphosis from pretty, dainty gentlelady to sexed-up, slick, fetish vixen. However, this time was different, because i was making my debut sporting the very textile i've spent many years obsessing over when worn by my feminine counterparts. When it came time to polish and shine my clothing, it sunk in how real my immersion into this event was to be. I was buffing the slick latex so that my own attractiveness would stand out - such an overtly sexual and aggressive gesture i'm not accustomed to making (i'm usually much more subtle in the expression of my appearance) - and soon i felt my own transformation start to unfold. By the time we got the call from the lobby downstairs that the cab we'd ordered had arrived, a fervent energy pulsed through my body, intensified by how turned on both of us were when we looked at eachother. Instead of being coy, we walked through the lobby of our hotel (which was surprisingly busy for that late hour), with purposeful strides and direct eye contact with anyone gawking at our shiny figurines parading across the marble floor.

The spectacle of the Fetish Ball was everything my friend had billed it out to be. This was not going to be like the hugely disappointing events we'd attended here in the States. Top to bottom, the multi-level, former cathedral swam with gorgeous people - both male and female. Hundreds of tightly-clad, latex seductresses slithered and ground their hips to the bombastic beats of the DJ's house music. Vampiric goths, naughty nurses, sinful nuns, pretty candy-coated pixies, and breathtaking pin-ups roamed the grounds, providing your's truly with a sensory feast i'd be able to munch on during the many days following.

The air hummed with a sexual sizzle, that only lowered and deepened into a guttural growl once we stepped foot into the area known as "the Dungeon". It's here that my latex dolly got the most attention - the kind of attention (and my subsequent reaction) that requires another entry, all to itself.

My collection

2009-09-27T10:07:00.003-04:00

From a very early age (oh dear, here we go again. Another one of Deity's posts about how he was as a kid - 'fraid so), my favorite places in the world to spend my time were museums. I loved their quiet, church-like solemnity. People spoke in hushed tones, whispering, as if the artifacts were sacred relics (some in fact were) that shouldn't be disturbed. And, contrary to what most must assume, it wasn't just art museums I adored. No in fact. It was all museums. Natural History museums. Transit museums. Military museums. Art museums. Sports Museums. Hell, I'd even go to a toothpick museum, as long as there were objects, on display preferably (and actually a very important detail) behind glass cases.

It turns out that this is a rather prevalent part of my psyche. I've always loved collecting things: stamps, business cards, soil - you name it, i would find a way to gather and archive it. Whatever the collectible, the most important component was the container I kept it in. I preferred that it was see-through. Something about looking at the contents, captured, yet protected and preserved gave me peace; as if i were relieved that they couldn't get away but also, nothing could get to them. I thrilled at the task of cataloging these individual specimens, taking great care to label each with the contents that lie inside. But just as enjoyable was my process of orderly and meticulously putting these treasures away.

I liked knowing I had these little bundles stored in my closet or stacked meticulously on my shelf. By possessing them, I took on the very serious role as their caretaker. I looked after them, made certain they remained organized and cleaned and gave them copious amounts of my attention. I felt total ownership of them, and as a result they were completely and totally mine.

A complete dick

2009-09-23T15:58:00.003-04:00

I think with my dick. That's what I'm told. That's what is expressed to me countless times, over and over.

"Stop thinking with your dick."

What exactly does this mean? I know what they intend it to mean when they say it. Stop allowing your phallus to influence or overpower your decisions. But, it's ignorant to expect a man to not give great deference to a part of his anatomy that has caused so much of his life. From an early age, males, whether they are gay or straight develop a very private relationship with their penis. Some will end up sharing a portion of this relationship with others, some will keep it in complete isolation from everyone. However the male decides to handle this, this appendage remains at the very center of their self, and cannot be easily extricated or ignored.

In order for this to be an accurate statement, i think it should be rephrased as:

"Stop thinking with and about your dick."

I'm not sure when i first thought of my penis as a dick (a sexual unit), and i'm not sure i've quite come to think of it as a cock (either as a word or as the trashy term used in erotica/porn). I do know, however, that i spend a great deal of time thinking about it in some fashion. Sometimes i try to remember what it was like before this fleshy handful transformed into a weapon of mass insemination. It's odd to me that i've had only two or three conversations with other (straight) men about our penises, when i'm certain we'd have plenty to say. For the most part, it is seen as homosexual-esque if you were to engage in a discussion about your genitals, and most men will feign complete revulsion at the topic - which i don't get because i find the topic ENDLESSLY fascinating (of course these same men will prattle on and on about bowel movements and their flatulence).

I enjoy a good meal. I feel rejuvenated when i get to spend time outdoors being active. I would even say that music provides me with tremendous amount of stimulation. But without hyperbole, none of this compares to attention paid to my penis. I adore - ADORE - masturbation and sex (and they are separate but equally thrilling activities). In a typical day, i will handle my penis on average of about an hour, whether it is just a quick rub/check-in/adjustment, or if i'm pulling it completely out of my pants and giving it my full attention. I think about it when i'm sitting in my office chair, when i'm on the train holding onto a pole, or when i reach into my pocket to fetch my wallet. It doesn't take much to cause an erection. A certain smell. The sound of a pair of heels clicking on the sidewalk. Even something as simple as a brief embrace from my girl.

Frankly, i've had more worthwhile and meaningful experiences when i've given every little ounce of my energy and thought to my penis. When i channel all of me towards and through it, such tremendous liberation and freedom overwhelms me, i couldn't imagine it never being a major player in my decisions.

Wherein Deity gets stalked, Part I

2009-09-17T15:59:00.000-04:00

Many years ago, i created a profile on one of the more prominent personal sites for those seeking an SM relationship. I was very curious, as online dating was just starting to really pick up steam, and thought it would be fun to venture into the kinky partition. I spent a little time filling out my profile, not much, but enough to get across the message that i wasn't seeking a "slave or a sub" nor was i needing the girl to refer to me as "Master" or "Lord" or "Sir" anything. I remember ploughing through the checklist of interests with rapid concentration. You had to indicate whether you'd be interested in receiving or giving of the particular activity (i.e. spanking) as well as indicating your experience level (never tried but curious; very experienced; or completely avoid). Without knowing what this said about me (because i didn't spend a great deal looking at other folks profiles), the manner in which i answered these questions gave my profile a specific expertise level. Apparently, i was advanced in my deviancy.

I enjoyed sampling the number of local girls (i was only looking for any interaction with someone who lived in my city) who largely expressed their (mostly) reluctant interest in being dominated by a man. This made sense to me. If you were reluctant to pursue a kinky connection, it was pragmatic to test the waters in a relatively safe online environment. But, i didn't completely understand what these girls meant by "being dominated by a man" and still don't understand what this means when i encounter this in the naughty blogosphere. I consider myself a dominant male, but i've never seen my behavior as dominating. When it has felt right, i've seen my behavior as guiding, mesmerizing and arousing. I didn't know if these girls were just looking for a much more pushy version of the typical spineless, insecure male they were used to being with, or if indeed they sought the deep connection i've found when reducing a girl to an object.

I found a good number of girls to be outright enticing as presented through their profile, but chose not to contact any of them. Content for now to just act as a voyeur, i logged in every few days to monitor the activity. I'd been on the site for about a week before i received my first message. It was adorable in its frenetic brevity. She was very timid and unsure, but she expressed a nearly uncontrollable urge to reach out to find out more about the man i described myself as. We had a few conversations, and it became clear that my desires were much more extreme than perhaps she wanted at the moment. We parted ways in a pleasant manner - her wishing me luck in my search, me wishing her to be safe and to guard herself diligently. Most of the exchanges (all initiated by the girl) i had on this site proceeded like this, with me at the end wishing to secure each of these novices against what i observed as unexperienced and misguided trolls posing as "Dominants".

I'd nearly given up hope on ever finding a reasonably entertaining and challenging plaything, when out of nowhere Pamela [not her real name] dropped me a very reticent and cautious line. I'll never forget the exact wording of her note:

I'm not even sure why i'm on this site or even why i'm writing to you, but you sound unlike any other man i've found here, and even if you weren't that refreshing, and despite the fact you don't post a pic of yourself, i can't help but get the sense that you are an incredibly attractive person.

I sat on her message for a few days. I liked that it was just mine. I hadn't responded yet, so, to her there was no real existence of me. Just a profile. Whereas i got to sit and read those words and couldn't help but feel their genuineness and their utter flattery. She showed intelligence, confidence, but also a deep vein of curiosity in just her words. I contemplated not even replying, ditching the site completely, but then i abdicated and wrote her back.

I wish now that i hadn't.

The difference being

2009-09-05T09:03:00.004-04:00

"I'm not like the other boys."

-Michael Jackson, in his video for the song Thriller

To follow this idea of us all wanting to be valued and accepted, this abuts right up against this feeling i've long held about myself. My difference. I'm not like others. I don't fit in and never really have. Even amongst my small nuclear family, i am set a part from them. My siblings and i get along, but they do not understand me. We are night and day and many cannot believe we grew up in the same house. I don't resemble my parents, nor do either of them feel connected to me. Both of them have said, in their own way, that they felt like i could've been adopted. Our world views are dramatically different. Even our political ideologies couldn't be more opposite.

Amongst my friends, very few of them know the extent of the power exchange that defines my relationship with my girl. Even then, i cannot speak to any of them with much detail before they quickly try to change the subject. If we venture outside of the horizon of my kink, i hold opinions on most topics that are not warmly received or come across as controversial. In large part, the massive contents of my thoughts remain stuck inside my head (except those i journalistically share here or other places).

Acquaintances have always perceived me as odd. A character. Not normal. And for most of my life, that is in fact the umbrella under which i roamed. When compared to others in my same gender, i haven't found much kinship there either. They hold different priorities (watching and talking about sports all of the time). Their reaction to the passing female stranger ("oh, i'd do her.") is incredibly incongruent with mine - i want to stare at her beauty, study it, possess it, but rarely is it my desire to fuck it.

As a result of this, i have developed very thick skin. It wasn't always that way. As a young boy, i was accused (take note that i use this word) by others of purposely acting against the norm: "You just like being different." I became immediately defensive at this accusation. I swore it wasn't an artificial cloak i wore, but they had me convinced that my difference was faked. Rather than attempt to silence the outcastedness, i just withdrew deeper inside. It was these times i turned to that young man that reflected back at me in that mirror on my floor.

In those times, i didn't see my difference as an asset. It was my handicap. It was what kept me from being a part of the world around me, and more importantly, finding what i needed to satisfy my appetites. It took a great deal for me to realize the worth in my deviant mind, and liberation finally came to me when i first explored SM with a girl i was dating.

Now, when i think about what so many misguided children used to say to me "You just like being different," i smile. It's true. Wow, how i wish i could've felt that way then.

In reflection

2009-09-03T14:56:00.000-04:00

Throughout my life, i've often heard from others that i'm starved for attention. In many ways, this is true. When i'm at a party, i tend to be the one regaling everyone with stories and and having them in stitches. At lunch, the subject, if it's not on something general that we all can discuss, is usually about me and some aspect of my life. In public, i make sudden loud noises when i stretch, i don't mind singing a song at high volume, and i'll goof on my girl and say something like "No, i will NOT kiss you on the subway. God!" very loudly. When i was younger, i was frequently nominated to represent our class in school-wide speaking events and had very little problem presenting in front of large groups. I enjoy the spotlight, in fact when in it i feel a very similar sensation as when i'm being served by someone. But, to say that i'm attention starved, i'm not sure i agree with that statement. In fact, when you put that in the framework of my power exchange, it doesn't fly. I quite frequently give a great deal of attention to my girl - certainly it is in the service of my appetites, but it is also servicing her appetite to submit. It is her rump i spank, her dress code and look i manage, her limbs i bind, and her entire body i cocoon. This is not attention that is reciprocated. All of this had me pondering what exactly it means to seek someone's attention.

Is it merely just someone becoming your audience? That wouldn't seem to be enough, really. If they just stood there, blankly staring at you, not offering any emotional response or feedback. We want kind words, pleasing and complimentary words. We want validation, we want applause. We want to see evidence of joy created in the person, but even that isn't the root of what we seek. We want to know that we offer this person, the world, something valuable, intangible, unique. What are we really after?

Our reflection.

Attention from someone is the kindest mirror we could possibly encounter. I remember as a kid, i used to have a notebook-sized mirror i would take off my wall and put on the floor and pretend it was a doorway to another world through the ground. And i would visit with this person, and ask them what was in their world, and i would eventually come to learn that the world in that looking glass was the idealized version of the world i lived in. The "me" in the mirror was giving me the kind of attention i so often sought because he was ultimately validating me - in fact resembling me identically. I'd laugh at myself, make silly faces, but where i really enjoyed these moments was when i stared into the reflection of my eyes and felt a deep connection with that "self".

Maybe that's what attention gives us - a connection. Despite all these new, digital ways we can chain ourselves to people diluting our lives of interpersonal interaction, it hasn't made that desire to connect any easier or any less potent.

Routine

2009-08-29T07:59:00.004-04:00

My body doesn't react well to heat. Neither does my mind. It invades the crevices of my brain like a slowly, slithering droplet of water that rots away the wooden foundation of a house. I get irritated. I'm cranky. Most unfortunately, intimacy with my girl suffers. I've tried my best to wrestle with these annual demons, hoping to not let this weather that i cannot control get the best of me. As a result of this struggle, my girl's weekly maintenance has not materialized while the humidity super-saturated the air. I'm not proud of this, and sought to correct the absence of her corrections.

---------------------------

"What are you hungry for?" I asked her while leaning against the doorjam of our living room.

"Oh, gosh. I don't really have a taste for anything," The air wasn't moving in the apartment, and it was very easy just to remain stationary. I could tell she was fully sedentary - a state not conducive to her having a preference for much of anything. "Well, what do you want?"

"We really need to address a more important matter first." I gave her a quick wink with my left eye.

"You mean - oh...yes, spanking. How do you want me?"

I turned and left the room, walking back along the hallway, "Come to the bedroom - and remove those damn socks."

The socks were off before she entered the dark chambre. I guided her to the end of the bed, positioning her differently than what she's used to. Instead of her gripping the footboard, i laid her body over it so that her torso rested completely on the mattress, and her feet anchored to the floor. Lifting her dress, i took note that she'd also already removed her panties. The contrast of her pale, white mounds in that dim setting immediately aroused me.

"Please lay as still as you can," I told her, as i abandoned her backside for the bedside table. Pulling out the drawer, i retrieved the trusty - and hated - wooden brush. I developed an immediate kinship for this device, it being a long time since we last collaborated. He felt confident, secure, and solid in my hand. I brought him to her right buttocks, and stroked her snowy skin. My ears delighted at the familiar sound, rough abrading sighs of bristles sanding her cheeks. Over and over. Stroke. Brush. Burr and shine. The electricity of my movement soon came alive in her flesh, filling the area with a vibrant rosiness. I flipped the brush over and pattered her ass with a chorus of swats, inviting more of her blood to rush onto the corporal scene. When finally my favorite cherry color satisfactorily covered her derriere, i asked her for a number.

"12...?"

It being so long, i felt a lenient ambassador speaking on her behalf inside my head. I took his advice into consideration and made my determination.

"16 - and don't forget to count."

I placed the brush on the bed, near enough so that he didn't miss the festivities. I gave the air a few moments while i flexed my naked palm. It too hadn't been called upon for awhile. Pulling back my arm, i landed the first swat upon her left cheek. Because of how i'd positioned her over the metal frame, upon impact, her mid-section slammed into the black scrolled steel, magnifying the pain. Perfectly as designed.

I greeted her ass cheeks with an assortment of strokes - a collision of the full meat of my hand across her flesh; a downward onslaught from the top thirds of my fingers; a wicked, lightning-quick whip of just the tips of my fingernails (easily the most painful). Her response was remarkable. In a very short time, i spent my 16 lashes. Both of our breaths spilled rapidly into the atmosphere. I desired more.

Grabbing her by the hair, i pulled her up from the bed to face me, then pressed with both of my hands upon her shoulders, moving her to the floor. Her mouth opened and instantly accepted my rigid phallus. Hungrily, her head bobbed up and down, knowing that at the end of this, her full rewards awaited. For a moment, i held her head still, allowing her mouth to just nurse on the flesh gagging it. Finally satisfied with this act, i pulled out with a salivary pop. I lifted her from her knees and quickly swung her, stomach-first, over to the side of the bed. Without discussion, she opened her legs with an inviting lift of her rump. Filled with guttural excitement, i entered her from behind.

"Say: Thank you for fucking me."

Her voice raspily complied,"Thank you for fucking me."

"Repeat it. Don't stop." I continued to pound into her hind quarters, over and over.

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

"Thank you for fucking me."

Turning it on myself

2009-08-23T14:17:00.005-04:00

In the near future, the House of Deity will temporarily relocate across the Atlantic to a famed city i haven't yet had the pleasure to visit. This city is one of the cultural scions for many things, but for my purposes, it plays a significant role in the world of fetish. While it isn't the official reason my girl and i are hopping on an easterly plane, kink will be explored, purveyed, played and even purchased. All of this will culminate in the attendance of one of the world's biggest fetish events, with a particular concentration on one of my three largest fetishes: latex

In preparation to attend this kinky gala, my girl and i have had a lot of fun perusing the ever growing market of latex clothing, in search for an update to her wardrobe. However, there is a kink (wink-wink) in this usually conventional search. Due to the profile this party receives, it must enforce a very strict dress code in order to maintain an immaculate latex orthodoxy. As a result, i've had to acquire a latex costume of my own. This is a first.

For years, i've happily plundered my dough on a rubbery dress or skirt for my female companion to don. In fact, 100% of my attention in any boutique that hawks these garments has been devoted to the "Women's" section. I never cared to look at the male offerings because so much of what i saw was so unappealing. Honestly, the notion of slapping on a full-body latex catsuit did nothing for me - worse, it conjured images of the limitless amateur photos i've encountered of male slaves awkwardly draped in the shiny, cocooning material. I didn't relish the task. My fetish isn't one where i'm the mannequin, but rather where i'm able to make my female counterpart the mannequin. Nonetheless, i received repeated assurance from my overseas connection that we would not be allowed entrance - no matter how incredible my girl looked - if i wasn't dressed in some rubberized fashion.

After much procrastination, we settled on a simple military-themed outfit from Libidex. My how easy it was to find something for her, in fact the more difficult task proved to be settling on just one outfit. We waited for our package to arrive in the mail.

When it finally arrived, greeted first by a burst of the heavy, smoky aroma of latex, we carefully peeled each slithery item from its envelope of tissue paper (which is a must when shipping latex, because unlike other clothing, these delicate items cannot lie against themselves out of fear that they will adhere to eachother). I purposely delayed in examining the shirt and pants we ordered for me, instead insisting on previewing her outfit. When i finally fished out my purchases, i was pleasantly greeted with a handsome plumb-colored short sleeved shirt with a striking military insignia on the arm.

The moment arrived to try it on. Having instructed several girls on the application of talcum powder to their bodies in order to facilitate the tug of these rubbery items over their flesh, for some reason, i felt a stubbornly masculine resistance to doing the same for me. I didn't need soft, slightly perfumed baby powder. My sheer will and determination will suffice. Boy, was i wrong. Not only was it a massive struggle to pull on the incredibly tight military trousers, but the material caught on every single hair on my legs and yanked at them, as if to tear each follicle from my flesh.

Eventually, i got the pants on, and then buttoned up the army shirt, still feeling a little weird to actually be someone putting on latex clothes. Almost immediately, i could feel the effect of the tight, stretch material that cause so many to become latex aficionados. I felt a cool breath on my body everywhere the latex touched, that would eventually warm up against my skin. The tight constriction of the material also had an unexpected appeal. I've worn tight pants before, but because these stretched and smoothed over my body to such an extreme degree, they really felt like they were a part of my anatomy, rather than simply draped over it. When we studied eachother, alternating between the mirror and looking straight at eachother, both me and my girl were excited at how relatively un-freakish we looked. She looked phenomenal in the dress we chose, the slick, liquidy latex flowing over her delicious curves. In many ways, we mutually felt like we had put on superhero costumes for Halloween. All we needed were eye masks to fully conceal our identity.

Even now, as i contemplate the fact that after all these years, i finally own some latex outfit for myself, the idea feels a bit surreal. It's like turning the transformation ray on myself, and sometimes i don't mind that notion, but for the most part that time in my life has passed, and i can't help but feel a little out of place.

Paix resistance

2009-08-18T18:40:00.003-04:00

Do you remember before you used to think? Do you remember when you looked at grass but didn't know it was called "grass"? Do you remember when your head was untouched by logic, when human civilization hadn't yet pressed its oppressive stamp upon your brain? What form did the images that entered your head from the womb take? What form did they take before you understood language? Has language freed or chained your mind? What have we lost encumbered by all this "noise"? How can we reclaim what we've lost? How can we go back to that stage of singularity? How can we find that peace?

Can i join you?

2009-08-13T08:56:00.008-04:00

I received her first package earlier than i expected. What a pleasant surprise. I turned the box over and over in my hand, looking at it as i walked into my kitchen. I dropped it with the rest of the mail on the counter, and forgot about it for the remainder of the evening. Right before i turned in for the night, the package popped back into my head.

-----------------

We'd met one evening, on one of my endless series of business trips. She approached me in a bar, she said, struck by my solitude yet not looking at all alone. I was ravishing my glass of whiskey, letting the auburn liquid swirl around, splashing up the side. Our eyes met, and instantly i approved of her gesture. She was stunning, but beyond that, i could see an immediate hunger in her qualities. She wore it like a tight-fitting dress. More importantly, it wore her. I told her that i didn't require her company. She rebutted.

"I didn't require your permission to sit next to you."

"Oh no?"

-----------------

When i opened the box, a waft of flowery fragrance immediately splashed against my nose. My fingers swam through the brittle cloud of shredded paper stuffed into the box for shipping, finally landing on a mound of soft, silky fabric. Clenching onto my prize, i retracted my hand from the package. Draped in my fingers were a lavender pair of satin panties - the conduit for the perfume. But i detected a different note than just designer perfume, a bolder, richer, hungrier scent. Opening up the lingerie, a white, texturous trail filleted the crotch which was the evidence showing, as asked, that she'd sent a used pair. I pressed this girlish output to my face, crushing it into my nostrils. I swam in the gorgeous contrast of sweet and dirty, inhaling deeply for several minutes.

-----------------

"What exactly do you mean you wouldn't phrase it that way?"

"Well, i'm a man for whom permission is a requirement."

"You can rest assured that i won't seek your permission for anything."

"Well, then, it was nice speaking with you." I turned my body away from her and resumed my position, hovering over my drink.

"Excuse me? You've got to be kidding..." A few seconds of pure silence passed, enough for me to tilt back the rest of my drink and to motion to the bartender for another one.

"You have GOT to be kidding!" My former companion huffily lifted herself from her chair and stomped out of the bar into the hotel lobby. I watched after her. I loved watching the angry protests of women. She'd come back. I took out a pen and grabbed a cocktail napkin, writing down something in preparation for when she did.

-----------------

She'd sent the panties, but it seemed she'd forgotten something else. Tipping the box upside down, i allowed the stuffing to fall to the floor. I was pleased to see the loose note flutter out. I bent down to pick it up, chuckling immediately when i read its pointed brevity.

"you're such a bastard."

Over the course of the next few months, i had the privilege of receiving similar presents in the mail. As agreed, each arrived by a certain date, containing the exact items i'd detailed to her. I enjoyed each delivery because they conjured immediate images of her and the lengths she went to satisfy my requirements. It was many months before i was able to make it back to her city.

-----------------

"You have some serious nerve."

"Why hello there." I looked at her with the side of my eye. Apparently, the hotel lobby wasn't as interesting as she'd hoped it would be. "You're back?"

"I had to let you know how ridiculous you are to insist that a woman ask permission to sit down and give you her company."

"Well are you going to ask?" The ice cubes in my drink broke apart from eachother, creating a little jingle sound. This musical interlude was interrupted by her heavy sigh.

"Would you," she shook her head, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. "Would you mind if i sat down?"

"I would love it." I pulled the chair next to me out, guiding her in with my open hand. "Can i get you a drink?"

She ordered a glass of Chardonnay. As the bartender was pouring her drink, i slid over the folded napkin i'd earlier written on.

"What's this?"

"Read it."

Her eyebrows curled in perplexion as she unfolded the note and read.

A week following our conversation, you'll buy a brand new pair of satin panties. One evening when you're by yourself, you'll put them on, and wear only them all night. Before you go to bed, i want you to remove them and the next morning send them to me. I want you to include a note that details your thoughts as you slide the panties off.

The bartender placed her wine in front of her. She looked at the glass, then shot me with her eyes, "You know, on second thought, i think i'll pass on the drink." She pushed herself up from the table and charged out of the bar. I grabbed another napkin, and jotted down my next few demands.

Moot lighting

2009-08-05T16:16:00.005-04:00

So much advice found in conventional sex columns and guidebooks talks about the need to set the right atmosphere in order to soothe your partner into an intimate act. I remember reading my parent's copy of The Joy of Sex, flipping through the rich illustrations, but always getting stuck on the descriptions of the ideal mood. The right temperature (not too cold, but not sweltering either), the right sounds (some classical music - Baroque - would do the trick) and always the perfect light (candlelight if possible). The last tone received exceptional stress because too much light might bring out your partner's insecurities about their body, thus weakening their arousal, however too little light might shunt the erotic power of seeing your partner's face in the throes of ecstasy.

For years, as i caroused in the sexual bramble along with my fellow pubescent mates, the importance of light stayed steady in my focus. I was convinced that achieving the proper illumination would ensure the optimum amount of joy and pleasure (little did i know that this sex book was intended for married couples who needed to "re-kindle that spark" and not horny, teenagers). I'd funnel my hard-earned, adolescent wages towards purchase of special lightbulbs that ensured a coital hum or a cacophony of candles that sprayed our naked, young bodies with warm effusion.

As i matured, i continued to employ these meticulous light shows, but discovered something about them that negated their purpose: they did nothing for me. In fact, they did the opposite. If i was attracted to the girl, it didn't matter if a hundred fog lamps were raining down on us, and the same went for pitch darkness, my arousal sizzled either way. Paying so much attention to the mood lighting made the sexual act feel stilted and choreographed. As i continued to develop my erotic palate to reveal a large erogenous zone dedicated to the objectification of my partner, fixating on the need for light in order to observe her orgasmic facial expression desisted.

Randomly the other day, the memory of my once formidable obsession over light levels materialized in my head. I've long since abandoned that fixation, and have replaced it with a rather intricate process of crumbling, collapsing, re-arranging and erasing of my partner's identity. Whether she is bound into an unrecognizable arch of flesh, she is wrapped into a cocoon of plastic wrap and duct tape, or is turned into a shiny hood ornament for me to play with, the common denominator is the disappearance of the face - as an orchestrator and receptor of expressions.

I'm still capable and quite desirous of face to face physical intimacy, there is a different soul to those encounters. But, i cannot ignore the power and sway the act of transforming this beautiful woman i love into an identity-less object whose very will rests fully in my hand holds over me. The metamorphosis grabs my insides - in one gigantic, crunched up fistful - and pulls them up into my chest, swelling it with a kinetic tornado of addictive energy that i can't get enough of nor ever want to relinquish.

Sly old fox

2009-07-29T13:37:00.006-04:00

She couldn't have been more than 20 years old, and even then, it was obvious her manner of dress was chosen to add maturity to her age. I saw that she was lost in her magazine, and didn't catch me stepping up to her register. I relished moments like this - this game.

In my head, i contemplate every move and gesture i need to make in order to fluster and catch a girl off guard. I will first surprise her with a firm, low-register greeting. Immediately following that, i will find her eyes, and stare right into them. Once i know she has realized we've locked eyes, a smile will break out the side of my mouth baiting her, as i wait for her to act upon my transaction.

This one seemed perfectly ripe and a virtual lock as a target.

"Hi, there."

She saw me smiling at her, quickly putting her magazine on the counter behind her.

"Uh...hi." She smiled back at me. "Hiya..."

She looked down at the items i'd placed on the conveyor belt, and began to scan each one. Following the beeping response of the scanner, she gazed up at me, right into my stare that hadn't moved from her. And each time she looked, her eyes bubbled and she smiled.

"You have to guess what i'm making for dinner."

She chuckled while arching her eyebrows. She gandered at me while biting her bottom lip, to gauge my seriousness.

"I'm serious...i'll give you three guesses."

She scanned the items, assembling them in a list in her head. She squinted at me contemplatively from the side of her head, trying to figure out what my appetites might be, what lay in my background and my biography. The only thing she had to go off was what stood before her.

"Do you give up?"

"Nooooo! Give me a - "

She stopped mid-sentence, and a disembodied thought that had been boiling in her mind finally formed together.

"You have really beautiful eyes."

Caught off guard a little by the change in subject, i didn't know exactly how to react, so i just offered a simple thanks.

"They are like looking into a bright Summer sky. I could stare at them all day."

I swallowed any words that were on deck in my mouth. She completely turned things around with this comment, taking the advantage in the conversation. I smiled, a little embarrassed by the fluidity of her compliment. As she finished scanning the rest of my groceries, i didn't say much. I didn't have much to say. I continued to hold the corners of my mouth upwards as i paid my bill, and gathered my bags.

As i walked away, i thought about how one should not overestimate the prowess of one even as young as that. Just as i reached the exit door, i heard her cheery voice call after me.

"Tacos! You're making tacos."

I smiled as the sun of the beautiful Summer day hit my face. She was right.

Lynch/fetish

2009-07-23T15:28:00.010-04:00

From the first moment i heard the opening, tragic notes of this song, i was hooked. I wanted to escape to this world of simple, forest-inhabiting, cherry pie-ingesting, supernatural people. Each stroke of the cascading six tones, rising then falling, like the chest of an innocent child stopping to catch their breath amidst a game of hide and seek hypnotized me, putting me in a euphoric trance. It all seemed so innocent, the pristine woodland creatures, tumbling waterfalls, soft amber colors. And of course, there were the girls of Twin Peaks. Every single one of them angelic heartbreakers, with pin-up looks and well-concealed darker sides that threatened to burst at any moment. This world represented a place where the fulfillment of my appetites could occur - the rigid capture of romantic beauty - i just didn't realize how much this hunger would affect me or how frequently i'd need to satisfy it.

My favorite of all the girls was Audrey, played by the gorgeous actress Sherilyn Fenn:

This image of Ms. Fenn is an exact copy of one i stared at for many, many hours. I'm not sure what i hoped would happen by these lengthy staring sessions. Her mouth invited a kiss. Her hands at her neck spoke of surrender, as well as one lost in lust. Her eyes, the delicately slanted whispers, bore into you, challenging you to muster up the courage to even be near her. The mountainous, ebony tendrils of her curly hair gave her a regal look, but also made her look like she was falling - away from you, urging you to save her, to catch her.

Hours.

I had to know everything about this actress, the man who composed this music and the other people behind this show. Everything. Eventually, i learned all of the actresses names. And eventually i learned the man who created this dreamy world: David Lynch

It's been (and i can't believe this) almost 20 years since David Lynch first brought us his world of Twin Peaks. Since that time, i have obsessively sought out his entire ouevre. He has imagined very diverse, incredibly surreal landscapes. From Victorian freaks of nature, to a senior citizen taking a jaunt on a riding lawnmower in the Heartland. From a futuristic desert landscape to a neverending highway of nightmares. There has been one theme that has consistently materialized in his work, that of devestatingly gorgeous feminine beauty. Without saying the word, Mr. Lynch, in his cinema, has paraded a world of his spiritual and sexual fetishes. The women have curves as if they belonged in a museum of ancient Roman vases, and the perfection of their faces certainly worthy of heavenly Goddesses.

Recently, i became aware of a collaboration between the cinematic visionary David Lynch and the footwear fantastico Christian Louboutin. Now, i'm a little embarassed to say that this partnership happened back in 2008. How i could've missed this exhibit, i'll never know, but i hope that it escaped my clutches doesn't harm my reputation as kink aficionado with you, my readers.

It's not exactly clear what the full exhibit consisted of, but i gather that David Lynch took the photos of models wearing shoes that Christian Louboutin designed specifically for this project. With all high-minded intellectualism, i can sense a woundedness that each model expresses, that they are trapped by an insanely demanding ideal of femininity which truly only values their parts rather than the sum of them. However, one look at the shoes in this photo, and the fetishist in me completely starts to lose composure. These extreme heels are totally unwalkable - to someone who has a fetish for female objectification, having your doll mobile rarely seems to be a necessity.

This gallery shows the spectrum of shots and shoes these two created.

This has a video that shows the gallery space, and a bit more examples of Louboutin's creations.

I'm not surprised that David Lynch at this point in his career is being more outwardly obvious with his own kinky bents. The arc of his career has been a gradually ascending dialog on this subject. It's comforting, somehow, to have an artist that i've followed and adored for two decades "come out", even though all along, when i first encountered his vision of a sleepy logging town in the Pacific Northwest, i had my suspicions.

The Slut vs. the Lady, revisited

2009-07-18T08:39:00.003-04:00

It's summer here, and with the increased temperature so goes my increased irritation with the manner of dress some women choose to wear. Back in 2007, i wrote a post addressing this issue, and found myself returning to this idea very frequently these days. Here we are a full two years later, and i do not detect a massive retreat from the march of the sluttification of feminine beauty.

In my post i speak about what sort of clothing offends:
"There are days that i find myself walking behind some of the filthiest trash, causing my stomach to turn. It's worse in the hot, summer heat. Something in the swelter releases a chemical in the minds of a number of women, convincing them that they should dress as skimpily and vilely as possible. This chemical also seems to block their ability to recognize what is sensible. I see the most lurid of sights parading on the sidewalks:
-vicously tight jeans whose top line seems to recede more and more each passing year, and whose shape makes a trip to the ob-gyn more stream-lined
-visible panties (g-strings or thongs) as a result of the eroding coverage the above pants provide
-backless, belly-less, shoulder-less...really material-less tops that cling to the gal's torso like a frightened child to its mother
-multiple bra straps serving as evidence that the wearer in fact owns undergarments
-belly piercings
-fabrics of bold, tacky and loud colors"

These trends continue, unabated. The fashion designers are obviously responding to a demand by their clientele to look more and more like amateur streetwalkers. My protest is not one out of conservative values and archaic rules of propriety. My reasons are much more dire.

"The men i work with will oggle and drag their tongues along the dirty street whenever they see a female dressed like this. They'll elbow eachother, whistle, snicker, say something crude like "I'd do her," all of which are appropriate (and sought after?) reactions to this kind of dress. The female is dressing like a slut, and for some reason, this is being celebrated, even coveted within our appalling fixation on the lives of celebrities."

I worry about the violence this onslaught of slutty dress promotes. I'm not suggesting that women who dress this way will be raped as a result of their outfits. The violence i speak of is of a mental kind. My male colleagues, when they see a young woman traipsing by in skin-tight jeans whose ass cups and separates each buttock, they're first reaction is a guttoral, instinctual reaction to pounce on her. They do not wonder about her intelligence, or her value to this world. She has become to them what her costume dictates: a piece of meat

Contrast that with a woman who wears a handsome pencil skirt, a titillating but elegant blouse, and modest makeup and her audience has a completely different, more healthy reaction. They speak of and focus on her beauty. A trait, feminine beauty, that has been celebrated for centuries. Yes, i am proposing that a woman's physical appearance is in fact a major contribution to this civilization because seeing a beautiful woman presented in a dignified way reminds us for that brief moment of the divine. Just like when we view a stunning flower garden on a sunny Spring morning, we receive a moment of reprieve from the harshness and brutality of life.

Now, i'm not naive enough to believe that if you eradicated this slutty form of dress, violence against women would disappear. No, in fact, what i propose is to stem the rise of what has been a crime committed against women as long as they have been fetishized and enamored, while also contributing more beauty to the world.

My addiction

2009-07-07T15:56:00.003-04:00

I seek to avoid acknowledgment of a fixation
to the flesh you pass before me;
to the off-white translucent thigh and the
amber shadow that traces between your legs.
And since i cannot claim the strength to turn from
nor deny this attachment, i abandon words for actions.
I find my hands tracing the silky down of your side,
skating along the smooth surface of your skin,
but this delicate dialog is not enough, for soon,
my fingers long for a stronger hit.
They curl around a long, stiff rod that will
strike against your body, extracting a more sincere
outburst from your mouth.

Pounding into you like a starving beast feasts
upon its fresh kill, my mind thinks of nothing else
but this
urge
hunger
ache

I fall off of you, lying next to your unmoving body.
The heat from our communion warms the air around us,
incubating this addiction that will rise to overcome me again.

His departure

2009-06-30T14:23:00.003-04:00

I was up on a ladder, fixing one of our new ceiling fans, when my girl came home. She called out to me, and i told her i was in the bureau.

"Is it true that Michael Jackson died?"

My gut sank. I hadn't heard this.

"Nah, no. It's Farrah Fawcett you're thinking of."

Satisfied with my response, she went into the bathroom to change out of her street gear. I, however, wasn't satisfied. That nausea weighing down my stomach remained. I climbed off the ladder and turned on the computer. I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it.

"Baby! You were right! He's dead..."

Over the course of the next 72 hours, i listened to as much of his music and watched as many of his videos as i possibly could. When i walked around my neighborhood, on every street and avenue, his songs poured out of the open windows of passing cars and steamy apartments. Even when i woke up the morning after his death was announced, i still couldn't (nor did i want to) believe it.

I can't speak to Michael Jackson's impact on other people. Even in my own home, my girl's experience with him was different due to her being several years my junior. She couldn't anticipate the amount of grieving i would need to do. In truth, neither could i. There was never a moment where i thought: "What will it be like when Michael Jackson dies?" I was unprepared for the profound impact his passing had upon me.

Some of you might be asking why i felt such a crater from the force of this man's death announcement. In an earlier post, i described how i revisited his video for "Thriller" over and over in my youth. I obsessed over the "cat creature" transformation sequence, catching as many views of it as possible (eventually, i snagged a sloppy transfer of it to VHS, slipping this cassette in my VCR to watch this every few days). I got such a high from watching his incredibly famous face submit to this intense transfiguration, overtaken by the entire beastly character molded over his features. I didn't partake of many illicit substances in my youth, nor did i need to. Simply witnessing a physical metamorphosis like this delivered a euphoria that sank deep into my mental fissures faster than anything else.

In many ways, his music made up the soundtrack of my youth. I owned every single one of his albums (some multiple copies of each as i wore them out from listening to them so many times). I even remember the stores i bought each of them at, including the weather on that day. However, i can't claim to have the same attachment others had to this musician. I never attended any of his concerts, and if i ever had, i wouldn't have been one of the fans screaming their heads off. My fascination was, as far as i can tell, uniquely and quietly mine.

We've all seen how his appearance changed dramatically over the years as a result of dermatologic treatments and plastic surgery. I, however, was not one of the many critics of his pursuit to alter his appearance. I was fascinated by it, and completely comprehended. You can hear it in his words in that Thriller behind the scenes vignette. He thrived on transformation. And for someone who sought perfection in his musical craft, i understand how with unlimited funds he would tinker endlessly. I say this with all seriousness, that when i listened to his music or watched his videos, i viewed him as a kindred spirit, an ally - and yes - a friend.

It's this fact that brought clarity to my mourning. I've since found other like-minded souls (i count most of you who visit amongst that collection), but he was essentially the first. His departure will continue to affect me, but to attain a sense of peace, i've been re-listening to his music and reminiscing about moments where i solidified parts of my identity through a Michael Jackson experience.

One of my favorites: Captain EO

Already a gigantic fan by the time this project was released at Disneyland (also a place i was immensely obsessed about), i couldn't wait to sit in the Magic Eye Theatre and witness the spectacle in 3-D. I remember standing in the winding, serpentine line watching the monitors show the "Making of Captain EO" video when the image of the evil villainess of this romp popped up on the screen.

The confluence of my personal stimuli at that moment was almost too overwhelming: Michael Jackson, Disneyland, prosthetic makeup, and viciously curved, long talons. How humiliated was i to be standing in that line with a pubescent signal of my arousal poking through my shorts. I couldn't get into that dark theatre fast enough (luckily i had a small backpack i could use to conceal my erection). Of course, i was delighted to see that the evil queen (ironically named "Supreme Leader") got a good amount of screentime as the filmmakers made good use of the 3-D technology by sending her clicking, ebony claws out towards our supplanted bodies. In the end, Michael's music transformed everyone in the dingy palace from industrial mongoloids to technicolor flashdancers. I was mildly disappointed with the dispatch of the wicked temptress, having always held a morbid attraction to the heavily made-up goth/dark girl, but nonetheless quite pleased with the experience.

Watching it these many years later, i can see it for its cheesy, overly simple and sentimental ontology but do not appreciate it any less. It played a part as did the rest of this man's creative output into the formation of the man you've come to know as Deity. I, for one, will truly miss him.

Meditation: Body in Parts

2009-06-27T11:07:00.004-04:00

The individual components of our anatomy define both who we are and also how we experience as well as impact the world.

Your feet. Your roots. They keep you planted on the ground, connected to the Earth. Along with your legs, they make up the majority of your height which alone serves as a powerful indicator of how you are perceived. They perform the Lord's share of your locomotion, carving out the paths and vectors that deliver every experience possible. However, this isn't just a trajectory that brings you in contact with events, it is an object itself, a creation of its own. This is your legacy, your footprints. These limbs define the how and where of your life, and they offer a physical statement to others of your precedence, your existence and a materialized representation of you.

Your hands are sensitive. They perform the physical dialogue your vision wished it could. You greet others with your hands, a touch, a hug, a handshake. You declare your civility with these flippers. They are also the most valuable tool in your chest, as a result, you develop an intimacy with them unlike any other companion in your life. Think of your hands, and you immediately think of you. Look at them - always present before you. When you cannot see them, you still feel them, but you long for their return. In darkness, they are your eyes. Were you to look at yourself in a mirror (where light can be reflected), you will find that looking at your hands in the reflection is a similar experience to looking at the reflection of your eyes. They are known to you, as you are known to them. Your hands prove the reality in the fiction your eyes perceive.

Your mouth, opened or closed, is incredibly versatile. It is your spokesperson, both verbal and non-verbal. You can tell someone that you are happy with words or you can just smile (which actually is a more genuine indicator of how you are). Most energy to feed your body enters through this portal, the central repository for nutrients, which places the mouth at the top of the food chain - it feeds before anyone else. The Alpha gateway broadcasts your voice, the single denominator of your person. Someone can hear your voice without you present, and immediately receive an image of you (the slipperiest and yet most enigmatic part of you) in their mind. You sing songs, praise and erudition through this channel. Your mouth reacts to the world.

Your eyes are the first location anyone will seek in order to intuit your emotions. Your eyes hold a lofty and somewhat snobbishly dominant position in your appearance. They effectuate your experience, porting it to the here, now, real. Through them, all light must pass, otherwise fall under deep suspicion and scrutiny. They tell your mind a story of the world around you - listen to them preach the brightest shimmers to the darkest shadows. They are so powerful and fragile that they are the only thing you hide when you fall into slumber. Everything else remains revealed and exposed. You have a different experience, rather dramatic actually, when you use both as opposed to just one of them - the world moves from flat and narrow to alive and full of depth in complete visual binary stereo. Your eyes are greedy, striving to possess and consume an object, memorizing every fine microscopic detail. Images last in your mind long after the last savory taste of a 5-course meal expires from your palette.

Your ears are your sidekicks. They are perpendicular neighbors to your mighty eyes, pointing in complete right angles to your activity, behaviors and observations - never taking any of it on directly. Your ears deceptively lead you to believe they play a more active, engaged role in your experiences, but rather offer everything you do a crucial harmony. They are passive, the only passive appendage you have, not producing any single output. Strictly absorbing, taking in, standing by, your ears placate the more domineering parts. Despite this, your ears are not mere stepping stones to perception, but in fact the final statement. Once they contribute to the interaction, little can refute their authority.

Your genitalia prescribes the most wicked, torturous and explosive impact on your life, acting as the single most important and symbolic aspect of your body. Without it, you do not get to weigh in on the quality of the human race. They are your singularity, defining your biologic (which comes before your social and cultural) role. Uncontrollable appetites dictate their behavior that none of your other appendages can simulate. They are the greediest (yes, more than even then primordial mouth) of your fractionals, and if customs didn't prevail, you would use them far more than you do now. Due to this heavily-weighted limitation on their purpose, they cause the most vulnerability and struggle. We hide them. We ignore them. We chastise them. We're endlessly fascinated with them. We want to play with them. We want to play with others (we do not have this fixation to play with someone else's eyes, mouth, hands, feet). We drive towards their fulfillment, slowly, quickly, repeatedly, shamefully, boisterously, primally - at our peril, pleasure or pain. They are the only parts that can change shape (and must in order to accomplish their function) without any risk to you. They will come in far less contact with others than any of your other fixtures. They also act as the exit passage for your body's waste, yet, despite the importance of this function, it feels completely secondary. The word genitalia is imbued with erotic, sensual/sexual connotations, sought for by society to contradictorally reinforce and weaken the power they command over us. Your genitalia has been more responsible than anything else for your time spent at this site. The same exact goes for me.

The Cherrypicker

2009-06-21T12:02:00.006-04:00

The Cherrypicker-

He awoke, every morning, to the sounds of the roaring creek outside his window. The streaming waters rushed by with more volume at the beginning of the day, as if to wash away the previous one's ills and miscalculations. That this sound re-introduced him daily to the world imprinted on his thoughts and perceptions. Instead of gathering at a single point to observe then move on, his mind flowed constantly from one idea to the next. He didn't think much about the past or even the present. When in constant motion, neither exist. There is only before you, near you and under you. For most of us, the future seems abstract, as if we sometimes didn't expect it to happen. Not the case for him. He knew he would encounter the future because he existed right at its precipice, constantly speeding away from past events, heading, bobbing, swimming towards what lay ahead.

He took to his tasks with the same qualities. His calling was the thousands of cherry trees growing in the orchard just outside his door. He didn't see the empty pails waiting to be filled with the sweet, red morsels. Nor did he see trees teeming with ripe fruit, ready for his gathering. Instead, he saw only individual cherries popping from the tree into his hand. Each garnet, with its rosy skin and firm, yet curved rump received his undivided attention. His thumb would smooth over the shiny reddened surface, aware of the plumpness of its meat just beneath. After spending several seconds with each plucked cordial, bringing it to his nose where he ingested its delicious ripe perfume, he would carefully drop it into the wooden bucket hanging from his belt. He arose in the morning only for the purpose of receiving the visual kiss from each delectable cherry he selected. And so it went everyday, and everyday it went so.

Come Winter, his task changed from assembling to caretaking. Again, instead of the endless numbers of dormant trees, he saw only the cradles where the new fruit would blossom in the Spring. He pruned and groomed every branch and trunk, taking great care to remove any detritus that had amassed over the year, ensuring his longed for companions would have no obstacles to their bountiful arrival.

And yet, even though they were absent during the long, cold gray months, he steeled himself by visiting each and every blushing, burgundy buttocks in his mind, always with the understanding that they would return.

So it went everyday, and everyday it went so.

The Time

2009-04-29T19:36:00.001-04:00

It's come.

I'm having less and less of it.

Or, i'm not finding the reasons to make enough of it.

This site has become something i never thought it would become:

Work

When i started The Lustful Quality, it was a thrill for me. The interaction, the sharing of my words, the feedback - all of it was very enjoyable. Back then, i never thought i'd see it through as far as i have.

Early on, i dedicated myself to it, with a strict discipline of posting frequently. I've manned these pages for over two years, and have consistently published (or my host writers) a new post on average of one every three days. That, as i've seen, is a rarity. But it hasn't come without its cost.

I've mentioned my ennui before. Actually, many times before.

I'm not proud of the evolution i allowed of the reasons i continued to publish here. At first it was to share, but ever so gradually, i started to get worked up over the number of visitors i received. I felt that proved my relevance. And when i'd see those numbers cease to climb - and worse, reverse - i'd lose motivation. That lack of motivation can be seen in some of my posts. I'm aware of it, and i'm certain my readers were too, but out of politeness (or intimidation) they chose not to mention it. One telling indicator to me is that not a single post that i've written in the last 5 months have found it's way under the tag Deity's favorites. I tried to create new challenges to reinvigorate my interest, and they would, but only briefly. Soon my attachment to the site would return to where it was - loosely.

Unfortunately, as a result of this shift, the purpose of TransformHer got lost. I couldn't find evidence that i was making the impact that i wanted when i first started here in the list of anonymous web visitors that i religiously checked every single day (and several times throughout that day). That became more and more aggravating, and the choice i needed to consider became very clear. I don't do many things in my life without an exceedingly large amount of passion, and that was what precisely was missing - passion. For that reason, it became more and more unappealing to attach my name to what i felt had diminished to mediocrity.

I'm not taking the site down. I'll leave it up. I'm going to step away from it for awhile, and see if after some time i'll begin to miss it (which i almost certainly will). I can't promise i'll be back, but i can say that if indeed i do decide to turn it off, i'll pen a farewell.

This is not something i enjoy contemplating, and it's not a decision that's easy to make. But i know, taking a step away is the right decision.

It's time.

The Saddle

2009-04-25T09:13:00.005-04:00

It would not be a wrong assumption that my recent trip to a mountainous environ would involve taking in the powdery slopes of some ski resort. However, even though this recreation is native to my home state, it is not something i usually engage in, due largely to my fascination with exploring the outdoors. Whenever i travel back, i like to fill my time with walks, drives, hikes, rock-climbing, and on a rare treat, horseback riding.

I have stated before my experience with horses, but i haven't really mentioned much about my girl's. Through a perfectly lucky coincidence, she and i have a similar affection for horses and riding, with a few differences. Her experience came through summer camps where she would be paired with an animal, taught how to care for it entirely as well as ride it, which has led her to romanticize these great creatures to the point of girlish glee whenever she sees one. Whereas, my interaction with horses served as more of a functional, work-related symbiosis. While i enjoy their presence i still see them as a means of transport, just like my feet, a car and my hands might also facilitate my exploration of the terrain.

Prior to leaving for our trip, my girl arranged for us to have a couple of hours of private riding with a guide. She could hardly contain her excitement for this opportunity to sit in a saddle once again. The entire time leading up to it, she kept telling everyone who'd listen about her time with horses and how much she was looking forward to this time.

Our guide picked us up at an arranged location in the middle of the small mountain town. Within the first sentence he spoke, you could tell how genuine this man was as the purveyor of a dozen horses. This man was a cowboy. An old cowboy, one who had seen many changes across the West, and most of them from off the top of a horse. He ferried us in his "bukkit uh bolts" to his horse corral, where he had three steads waiting for us, ready to ride. My girl chose "Rascal" - who proved to live up to his billing - which left me with ole "Burly". Walking up to Burly, i could tell that like our cowboy guide, he too had seen many a years, but i had no problem trusting him and lifted myself atop his saddle. Our guide took us up a trail that raised our elevation by 1,500 feet in less than 20 minutes. My horse was gulping big lungfuls of air by the time we summited to the vast open mesa - always a strange experience to feel that coming from something you're straddling.

It felt good to be back on a horse. The land on the plateau we explored was so vast, i had several opportunities to wander off and let my horse out into a gallop. This is an experience that is hard to describe to those who've never done it. Galloping a horse is very unlike riding in a speeding car or on a roller coaster. While there is speed, the excitement isn't just unique to the rider in the saddle. Horses are evolutionarily made to run, and more than that, they love to run. So, holding onto the reins as this animal charges underneath you, hurtling you at frantic speeds, it's both a thrill for you AND your horse.

When we'd finished, my girl and i got to speak a little about the experience. While i had a blast, my girl had what could be described as a near spiritual experience. I wanted to learn more about what made it so profound. The thing, she said, that really grabs her is that it's very similar to a Dominance and submission relationship. The horse must submit to her commands, but she is dominant only because this 2-ton animal lets her. There must be consent, or else she'll be tossed from off its back. And that allowance, that willingness to consent to guidance and command really affects and fulfills her.

I knew exactly what she meant.

--------------------------------------------

I'd like to thank Vesta for her always impressive stewardship of this site in my absence. I do hope you enjoyed her perspective. I know i did as she always serves to enlighten me about some detail in a past post i hadn't thought of before.

The Balancing Act

2009-04-22T03:27:00.006-04:00

When Deity asked me to take care of these pages until his return, I wrote back to say that I would be happy to write two or three pieces over the week. It will come as no surprise to readers that he wrote back to say that it pleased him that I had agreed to write three pieces whilst he was away. I suppose some might say that my negotiation skills need some work!

With two pieces of writing ‘in the bag’, for some reason I was vacillating about a topic for the final piece for him. I thought about writing about ‘discipline’ as it applied to dress code. I mentioned the idea to Deity and I could feel him squirming in his seat. He wanted to trust me and yet, old pal Vesta hadn’t exactly embraced latex as yet, had she? His reply about my choice was not exactly exuberant.

Taking the hint, I abandoned that idea for a discussion about ‘control’. I’ve long been fascinated with all the strategies a dom uses to control his girl, from a ‘look’ or ‘hint’, to use of the whip. I was fascinated by Deity’s memory of his control over June. The poor wee thing said that she was unsure about wearing no panties under a short skirt to a restaurant, whereupon she would meet with him. So, what did he say?

Then, there is no reason for us to see each other again.”

Oh, June! You fell for the oldest trick in the book! Mind you, I have fallen for the same trick...but that’s another story for another day. And, let’s be honest here, for I am among readers of ‘like mind’, I loved every minute of it.

The 2007 archives here are scintillating reading. For those who have not read back there, put aside a full Sunday afternoon for that delicious treat. Ultimately, I needed to settle on one post and it is Egalité, and the discussion therein about equality. That morning back in 2007, Deity, by his own admission, pushed his girl too far. He wanted her back into a corset before the weather was appropriately mild for such a garment to be worn with some comfort. He had compared her to her idol in an effort to motivate her. Wrong. When asked for her thoughts she said,

“Why do you insist on us being unequal?”

Here was the response to a much bigger question. It was a question that went to the heart of their power exchange. As fascinating as his discussion is in the post, I was most taken to his response to comments. He suggested to one person who commented that perhaps we should just “enjoy the ebb and flow”. To another, “as I have changed my submissive, so have they changed me.” It was, he said, about finding the “balance” between the two people.

In another favourite post of mine, A convenient side effect Deity has written a list of behaviours and actions relating to his role in his relationship with his girl. One point notes:

“You forcefully point out that she needs to stop criticizing herself...because it will short circuit her impulse to over-analyse, and because she requires the authority of a boss.”

Ah! I relate. In fact, he could have been talking about me. You see, I need to be forcefully reminded to stop criticizing myself. I need to have my impulse to over-analyse short-circuited, and I also need the authority of a boss.

I’ve spoken before about the fact that I took my own sweet time to reveal myself to my husband. I’ve gone through the erotic ecstasies of being asked to be spanked and I’ve also ridden the highs of being asked to be dominated; not just in the bedroom, but all day, every day. In my most recent post here I talked of the fact that I am not at peace with my decision to be in a power exchange relationship every minute of every day. I’ve fought my own nature, and I’ve resisted my dominant’s control and my mentor’s control.

But, the truth is my husband has always led the way for the two of us. He has always expected that I would follow along behind. Why resist his status as ‘the boss’ now, all these years later, and when I finally had what I had always wanted? Some days, I try to push him to be “equal”, whilst he resists the equality sticker with every fibre of his being. It just isn’t going to happen. We are “equals” but our roles are very different; always have been and always will be. In essence, I am wasting my time, and my opportunity to be happy.

My resistance to my ‘place’ is not so much I don’t recognize that I need the authority of a boss, as it is my never ending desire to “over-analyse”. I just so very much want to get this right; to be sure that I should be doing what I am doing. Perhaps, it would have been easier if I had never been educated! Alas, I need to be sure; 100% sure that a power exchange is right, and that I am doing it right.

One day recently, I was speaking to an incredibly patient and tolerant dom. He was allowing me to blither on in a ‘chat’, not offering too much, until finally he decided to take the role of the dominant and see if he couldn’t talk me through my concerns.

“Why is it that you require being made to do something?”

“Well, it's not my choice...It's someone else's choice about my body.”

“But, haven't you given that choice over to me? So you don’t trust me to choose for you?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I don't know what to say.”

“That is the fallacy of ‘submitting is hard.’ You already submitted, you gave me the choice, and then when I make it, you take it back.

“Yes, I totally see your point. I feel quite enlightened.”

“It is like the quietening of the ego.”

“I am happiest when I am most calm.”

“But, getting calm is the challenge. Giving away the choice, and accepting what you get back, is calming. The resistance is the noise.”

It made total sense and yet, I could not embrace the notions with consistency. I needed to find a way to have a power exchange whereby I could ‘quieten my ego’ and at the same time express my thoughts which may not be in agreement with my husband. How did I do that?

In the past few weeks, I have had the great good fortune of becoming dear friends with a submissive woman who was able to answer that question for me. Like me, she and her husband are ‘life partners’. Like me, sometimes she disagrees with a decision her husband is making in their business. She related to my issues and being the darling that she is, she wanted to get this sorted for me, so that I could truly be happy.

“Master often asks my opinion about things, and when He asks my opinion as such, He will get an honest answer. Not what He wants to hear. In the end it is He who will decide, but He will know when i don't agree with His choice. I usually say: yes, do it the way you see is best but you must know that i don't agree with you. And, of course sometimes i feel angry and worried. But it goes away quickly... isn't submission wonderful! We are a team in life. So are you two!”

Finally, I had my answer. Who knows why we finally understand something on one day and not another! But in those words, I realized how to live – as a submissive; a submissive with a voice, and perhaps with a different opinion, but a submissive with a dominant who would make the ultimate decision. He is ‘the boss’, and I am the submissive, and that is what works for us; our version of a ‘power exchange.’

We must all find our “balance”; what works for us. I’m proud to be writing on the blog of a man who has put great effort into ensuring that his girl is as happy as he. And, I believe they are both blissfully happy. If that’s not balance, what is?

Lead the Way

2009-04-19T19:31:00.006-04:00

Writing for Deity’s site is rather unlike writing for my own (as he pointed out when ensnaring me to this task on short notice). When I write for my blog, a thought will enter my head, or an event has occurred, and I write it down. It is that simple. But, over here, I want to write differently. I want to be true to the soul of a blog belonging to a dominant man, a sadist displaying a deep honesty and integrity that is rare and ambitious.

Originally, I thought three fun posts over the week would be good; good for me and good for you. But, I have been pulled into the lion’s den. With limited time, I needed immediate inspiration. I began to re-read Deity’s words. I found what I was looking for in Restraining Order. It is a fabulous post, as relevant to his life today, I believe, as it was then; as relevant to him as it is to me, or you. I say this because I believe that as strong and capable as we are in this space, we are fragile, often only a moment away from causing our relationship harm.

Both the dominant and the submissive must display in equal measure, all the virtues. To be consistently open, honest and obedient to another person is no easy task. To take responsibility for another, either in a scene, or for life, is not a role to be taken lightly. To get, one has to give, and to give, one gets. We all know this, but it is the accomplishment and potential failure of that noble deed that I speak of here.

In a partnership, a partnership that potentially spans until one’s dying day, mistakes will be made. Feelings will be hurt; one or both team players will be taken to the brink of despair. It’s just life. None of us can stay up in the clouds forever. The rain soaks us all, and we must wait for the sun to shine again. We must give our apologies, declare our love, and try harder to breach the void that can exist between two souls from time to time. We must, ultimately, accept that we are all flawed; all of us. Knowing this, we must accept, and then embrace those flaws, in our partners. To live, and to love another for a long time, is to understand that it can never be perfect, not always.

In ‘Restraining Order’ Deity writes,

“I believe patience is not a virtue. It is a requirement...There will be thrashing, stuttering, doubting, and even contemplation of quitting. Having the ability to calmly slow the knee-jerk reaction to these responses will exponentially benefit both.”

Whilst I have the good fortune to correspond with a few dominant men, I have had less opportunity to talk person to person with submissive females. Thus, I can only speak for myself really. Patience is critical to my relationship with my dominant. I’ve thrashed, stuttered, doubted and contemplated quitting. I have knee-jerked my way through many situations. In spite of my most valiant attempts to be steady, I sometimes thrash about the D/s high seas; uncertain, insecure, searching for the lifebuoy, sinking, lost. At times, the sense of despair is complete and all momentum, gone.

When I look into this abyss, I am unable to see that it is the same black hole that I visited before. I forget that there is a way out of the black hole, and too weak to even cry out ‘Help!’ my survival instincts betray me. Either I am rescued, or I cease to exist. My husband is my dominant; and an anomaly. The children and I love him profoundly; he is as steady, as strong, as unsinkable as a ship; always there to guide the way. Prone to drama, emotional, even tempestuous, his strength and stalwart navigational skills to show us the way through to calmer seas, can be relied on. His sense of the dramatic, his sometimes overbearing nature can overwhelm me, but when I flounder, it is his unnerving way through the storm that always speaks to me. The clouds part, the sun shines weakly, and I begin to wonder if I have the strength after all, perhaps, to get up and try climbing out of the hole. He assures me with his words, his persistence and resolve that we will get through this together, and I begin to feel the warmth on my back. I smile. He infuriates me, but he believes in me. I need him. And, thus we go on, again, hand in hand, with him leading the way.

Over at my blog, I called one of my posts, Light the Way. Long ago, long before we said our marital vows, my husband and I took a shine to a saying, ‘I don’t know where I am going, but I am on my way.’ Some days, I don’t know where I am going, and some days I think maybe he does not know either. But, he convinces me that he does know, and thus we go forward together, him leading the way. Perhaps there will be the odd dead end, but we will retrace our steps, and go on. He will ‘light the way’. All you have to do is believe; be patient, do what comes naturally and you’ll get there in the end; together, with one right behind the other. That’s our way.

A very, very bad girl!

2009-04-18T01:56:00.015-04:00

You come to these pages to be aroused, don’t you? I know! I’m one of you; an avid reader. But, now I return to you here (as opposed to here ), to fill in for Deity whilst he is away. It was all a bit short notice this time, and he doesn’t know what I am writing, so let’s have some fun over the next week. It may lead to a tongue lashing later, but I’ll worry about that later. (“My God, she is so brave!” I hear some of you say. Or, stupid.)

I see that some of you girls loved being scared in a recent post.

“I imagine you sitting there wondering if I am speaking directly to you...”

Alfred Hitchcock could not have done it better, don’t you think? We girls love to be scared half to death. It gets our hearts racing a little faster, and yes, it gets us very wet between the legs. What a f**king rush! That’s why we giggle, right? Maybe they are saying the things they say and it is all a lark. And, maybe it is not. Maybe, they really are going to do the things they say. We don’t know and we love that we don’t know.

“Do you willingly open that door and feel them rush upon you, succumb to them, allow them to bind you and then drag you off to be delivered at my feet?”

Well, girls, do you? Of course you do...at least in your thoughts. So, now you are at his feet. What now? Do you have any regrets? Are you just a tiny bit worried? What the hell is he planning to do with you, anyway? Do you care? Or, do you lay there, breath shallow, heart racing, wishing that he would just get on with it?

Well, relax. He’s going to take his sweet time. He’s going to ensure that you are well and truly worried. Just a little worried is no use to him. He wants you vexed. Yes, my sweeties, vexed!

He wants you to pause, and reflect on the fact that only a bad girl would be here, waiting to have clever tricks and wicked deeds done to her.

Only a very bad girl would be hoping that he plans to order you to undress. If he orders you to undress, then it is out of your hands, right?

Only a very, very bad girl would be hoping that he plans to make you bend to his will; to make use of your body for his pleasure (and yours, too).You know all this. You know what he will do to you, and yet you stay.

That door that is ajar, allows you to go. You may go. You are dismissed. And, yet you stay. (You are still reading, right?)

I think he may be right. You are a very, very bad girl!

printemps

2009-04-15T17:42:00.004-04:00

Most this time of year flock to the warmer environs, as the buds of Spring peek their head out into the warmer light of the Sun. However, as the days grow longer and the temperature tauntingly creeps upwards, i often seek the last islands of Winter before i am faced with the doggedness of a sweaty Summer. I've decided that i need to take my girl on a short trip to breathe in the crisp open air found only where the oxygen is thin, and the snow is part of the landscape.

While i'm away, the lovely Vesta has agreed to look after the Archives of Deity. I always love it when she focuses her boundless energy here, and i hope you readers find it a treat.

Don't answer

2009-04-12T09:33:00.004-04:00

I imagine you sitting there, wondering if i'm speaking directly to you.
The room around you is dark, the only illumination coming from the monitor.
Your eyes peel over every curvature of these words, looking for a hint at my meaning.
When it first comes to you, that darkness, that lack of light that surrounds you suddenly grips you.
It holds you firmly, like the words on this page, knowing my intent.
You read the previous sentences, over and over again, in order to distract you from the thoughts that now creep into your head.
But they are there, gathering outside your door, outside the confines of your safe, secure mind.
Lurking.
In the shadows.
Summoned by me, to do my bidding. To tempt and haunt you.
Do you let them in? Do you willingly open that door and feel them rush upon you, succumb to them, allow them to bind you and then drag you off to be delivered at my feet?

Did you hear it? That door...it just creaked, as if something were leaning on it.

Wandher off

2009-04-09T09:54:00.008-04:00

I can't remember the precise thread of thoughts that led me to the designs for that evening's correction, but i do recall the instant the innovation popped into my head that a devilish smile painted itself across my mouth and the words "evil genius" captioned on my crown. Lately, i'd been craving predicament scenarios. In addition, i wanted to add some spice to our weekly routine. I intuited that a carrot needed to be inserted (into the scenario, you perverts).

"What do you have in store for me tonight?"

"I'm not sure what you mean?"

"It's Friday. Time for my correction."

"Oh, are we still doing that?"

My girl rolled her eyes at me, apparently unfazed by my stonewalled face.

I escorted her back to our bedroom where she was met with the hairbrush and thin dowel cane i'd laid out onto the bedspread. I knew that the options were not equally evaluated by her.

"You get your choice between these two implements."

"That's simple, i'll choose the-"

"Before you choose, i'd like to add that only one of these will allow you to use the Magic Wand." Her eyes widened.

The Carrot.

Some of you may remember a while back, where i used my Flex Spending dollars on items that would bolster my kinky supplies. Even after my successful haul, i still had a considerable amount left over, and looked through the online drugstore once more to see if there was anything that caught my eye. I couldn't believe it when i came across the Hitachi Magic Wand at drugstore.com. I immediately purchased it, keeping it a surprise from my girl, and excitedly awaited it's arrival (talk about a stimulus package from the government).

My girl has long had issues regarding masturbation and achieving orgasm. It had always been a goal of mine to help her overcome these and allow her to experience the full pleasure of her body's erogenous reactions. When i first presented her with her brand new toy, she reacted with muted excitement, uncertain why i would "waste money on yet another vibrator". Dear readers, i've known the power of the Magic Wand for many years, and i knew my girl even better. EVERY girl should have one. It should be a right, we should have government-mandated grants or scholarships that provide every female in this country with their very own (kinda like using a pre-tax allocation of funds to purchase one). I knew precisely her reaction once she nestled it's magical head against the pink folds of her sex and flipped the switch.

Her wide eyes staring at me as i dangled the electronic incentive in front of her were those of a complete convert. She knew that if i was sweetening the deal with her Magic Wand, the cane strokes were not going to be light. Nontheless, a girl has got to have her candy.

"Well, obviously, i choose the cane."

I had her strip and then come to the side of the bed where the device was plugged into the wall. I told her to grasp the white shaft of the vibrator on both sides, with the business end pointing in towards her belly, ensuring that her fingers could not reach the switch that adjusted the speed. I then took pink, vinyl bondage tape and wrapped her hands, making her and the implement one. I then directed her to assume a position on all fours on the bed, leaning on her knees and her elbows.

"We're going to warm you up first. Place the wand against your cunt."

She touched the silent staff to her crotch. I began tapping her exposed buttocks with the long cane, repeatedly over and over, targeting small patches of her flesh. Normally, my girl would writhe in sheer pain at this form of attention, but because of what lingered at her pussy, she knew better than to make a peep.

"Would you like me to turn the wand on?"

"Yes. Yes, please."

Reaching between her legs, i clicked the switch that set the device to animation. She instantly moaned, moving her conjoined hands so that the vibrating head made the perfect contact. I continued biting her backside with short, quick swipes, gradually increasing the amount of surface area the cane flicked into her skin. Unabated, she ground her cunt into the white dome of the wand. By this point, her ass cheeks burned a cherry red.

"Would you like me to turn it on high?"

"uh...y-y-yes...yes please."

"Give me a number."

"16"

This offering raised my eyebrows. This was not my regular girl talking. Not when the cane is involved. This was not my demure, playful, frail little darling who feared the long justice of the thin wooden tail. This was a hungry, desirous creature tossing her safety away for more. More. This was a fire that burned the length of her suppined body. This was utterly incredible to see. This was climax.

And this was definitely going to hurt.

Halcyon

2009-04-04T17:59:00.004-04:00

Awhile back, i opened the forum up for readers to ask questions either through my comments or privately through e-mail. Frankly, i was quite touched and overwhelmed by the number of questions that landed in my deviant inbox. Because they took the route of personally reaching out, i personally replied to their inquiries through private e-mail conversations. Some of the questions made me smile over the bashfulness in the questioner. Others stunned me for their sheer bluntness. And still a select few touched me for the amount of thought and reflection they caused me to undergo in order to properly address the inquiry. I present the following as the initial entry into a series of posts i hope to author that exhibit the stimulation i experienced from those of you who were curious enough to send me a list of questions (and if there are those of you who still would like to ask me something, please don't be shy, the window is still open).

"When did you realize that you had a desire to both adore and reduce a female?"

Oh boy, that was an early one. I remember having the biggest infatuation with this daughter of a family friend, and we would often play privately together. Off on our own, she would try to direct the narrative of our play, and i would firmly take it back in my hand. Many times, she would pout, and i would scold her for pouting, and even withhold my attention until she did what i wanted her to do. Lord, that seems so long ago. I think i'll expand on this in a post.

I've written about Muffy before. But i don't think i've ever thought about my attraction to her in such a duality as the gal who asked me this question phrased it. To both adore AND reduce. Is that what i was doing with her? I most certainly adored her. I remember when i first developed a crush on her, i was all of the age of seven, and after we'd returned from one of our visits to Muffy's family cabin in the mountains, i just sat for hours on the edge of my bed thinking of her. I couldn't bring myself to do anything else (including eating - i famously went three days without a single visit from my appetite after one of those visits), i absolutely had to consume every inch of her visage in my head. From the way she looked up at me through her arsenal of fluttery eyelashes, to the statement her bouncy pigtails made - everything about her was greater than the biggest bowl of ice cream or newest toy.

But, with all of my evident infatuation, it would be expected that when we found ourselves in eachother's company again, that i would spend all of my time pawing over her gentle flavor. As i dipped deeper into my memory cache to satisfy this reader's commission, i realized that was not the case. In fact, the currency i chose to demonstrate my attachment was cruelty, persecution and sadism. I pulled on her glorious pigtails, to the point of her wailing that summoned each of our parents. I would thoughtlessly knock over her tea set that she had so delicately prepared for us, snickering as she scattered to gather the fallen decolletage. Many a times, i held her favorite stuffed, yellow kitten hostage promising to do untold tortures to it only to watch her beg and plead that i release her plush friend. I was a terror. And yet, what made me so much more infatuated with her is that she took everything i dealt. We greeted eachother with equal amounts of glee and excitement, even though she knew what was to happen during our playtime.

It didn't occur to me what magical being i'd found until one day, after once again tossing her baby blue plastic china set to the floor, i had grown bored with her immediately responding by picking up the cups and saucers, and instead of watching, i lept to the floor and pressed my body onto her. I didn't want her to pick up my detritus. We struggled for a few minutes, her writhing under me as i reached for each of her arms in order to hold them still. After a moment or so, we looked at eachother - me on top, her beneath me - breathing heavily from the skirmish, and for whatever reason, we remained in that position. It felt so perfectly wonderful, yet odd and foreign as well, as if we'd glimpsed for a moment our mutual destinies. Excited that we might've seen where we'd end up, but also awkward in the moment of its newness.

Subsequent visits found us expanding on what we discovered that afternoon. She assumed the role of my puppet, i the puppeteer. And we flourished in this dynamic. Ask anyone outside of our relationship, and Muffy was the bossy, pushy girl who told others what to do and had wildly boundless ambitions. But in our little space that we safely discovered together, she relished the idea of me manipulating her limbs, restricting her speech and even withholding my attention only to give it back in tiny, delicious morsels.

As we grew up, that clumsy bigot known as puberty interrupted our fun. She became quite self-conscious of her reaction to our interaction, and i began to recognize the uncomfortable lower erotic undertone that it alluded to. Sadly, in order to preserve ourselves, we turned our once harmonic energy into an unhealthy competition where our scholastic and athletic achievements supplanted the acreage that our secretive choreography once occupied. What once existed between us would disappear by our teens, fluttering away like the last smoldering fumes of an extinguished campfire in the morning following.

Even a sadist has his limits

2009-04-01T20:14:00.002-04:00

While it is unlike me to pull the plug on a ruse i've pulled before the completion of one of my favorite days of the year, i didn't want to go too far with my little April Fool's joke.

The post titled "Break" was indeed not a real announcement of a lengthy hiatus.

So, for those who left me such very kind wishes of a speedy return, i am very grateful for your words. While, i'm still experiencing the bitter aftertaste that i referred to here, i'll manage. Ole Deity was just having some good-natured fun on the first day of his birthday month. Sorry, i couldn't pass up the opportunity.

Break

2009-04-01T10:11:00.003-04:00

Unfortunately, the affliction i reported on yesterday has not improved. In fact, if anything, it's gotten worse. The bitterness has increased in intensity, and it is consuming a great deal of energy as i need to eat yet it is rather discomforting to do so.

With all that said, because of this recent situation, i don't have the energy to focus on this site. For the time being, i'm going to take a leave of absence from posting here. I'm not sure for how long it will be, but for now these pages will go silent. My thanks to all of you who've offered their support and advice.

A bitter pill to swallow

2009-03-31T20:39:00.004-04:00

If you knew me personally (had the pleasure?), it would be clear that i hold the position that our views on the world, our reactions to the world, and our behaviors in the world are all crafted by our senses (aka how we commune with the external). However most of you (luckily?) have never met me in person, yet it isn't a far stretch to assume that this same axiom can be gleaned from the archives of TransformHer. All of this makes the recent peculiar ordeal i've found myself in all the more transformative.

Over the past 24 hours, i have developed a very strange oral reaction when i've sat down to eat a meal. For the most part, anything i've eaten, be it a banana, a bowlful of cereal, a salad or an omelette, a flood of bitterness overcomes my entire tastebuds. This acrid, pungent fog fills my mouth and lingers long after i've finished the last bite of nourishment. For someone who already does not have the most amicable relationship with food, having a mouthful of sickening, stinging foulness isn't conducive to responding to an on-rush of hunger pangs.

But, my torment doesn't end there. No one i turn to can understand, or worse, empathize. I've spoken to friends, they can't relate. I've called up my dentist, and he's completely perplexed, having never had a single patient's sensory mechanism mistake a piece of garlic bread for a wafer coated in bitter earwax. Even my (incredibly understanding) girl must reside on the sidelines as i quickly gulp down food just so i can quiet my alimentary quiverings before my mouth overflows with nauseating discontent.

Eventually, this will pass. But, hidden in the aftertaste resides a thought that i have had many, many times (and was reminded of when i read a very eloquent post). We are at the end of the day, hour, minute, second completely alone. We are our own self-sustaining vessels that must choose how to navigate in a steady stream of other independently-helmed self-sustaining vessels. No one will understand what life is like for someone who occasionally chooses to go by the moniker 'Deity', nor will that same man understand what the other's life experience must be like. Rather, what we wait for, what we dream about are those brief moments of tangentially connecting - when another person's island briefly shares the same waterfront as ours.

I know that this bizarre sensual inversion has a conclusion. I do not take comfort in the acceptance in the impermanence of my current ordeal. Rather, i find great relief from the recollection this conflict has provided that the sweetest moments are not found in overly lengthy collaborations, but instead in those brief, encapsulated gifts of concentrated awareness and acceptance.

How much kink can you accomplish in the dark?

2009-03-27T11:27:00.004-04:00

I occasionally use this venue for "good" as opposed to "bad". It is the former purpose i dedicate this post to.

Earth Hour

Have you heard about it? Basically, wherever you are, on Saturday, March 28th, from 8:30-9:30PM (Local time), you are encouraged to go without power. The House of Deity will go dark during that time, and i ask all of my readers to follow suit. However, i don't think the organizers of this event are going far enough. If you look at their home page, they are encouraging you to document and share your experience using your digital devices. Well, those take power too! For every mobile phone call you make, there's a cell tower that has to use power to provide you the bandwidth. And taking digital pictures? But, Deity, you're saying, those are rechargeable batteries. Yes, they are, my friends, but they have to be re-charged eventually, and if you use them, you're really only delaying the use of that energy (kinda like charging on a credit card).

If you're reading this, you have at least the propensity for kinkiness. What does someone who's kinky do with an hour of darkness? A lot of groping and pinching and fondling and all sorts of skin on skin is what i encourage. Leave me a comment and let me know how you passed those 60 minutes of pure darkened delight.

Stripsleaze

2009-03-24T16:44:00.000-04:00

It is a frequent past time of mine to take in an evening of burlesque - a task made much easier with the increased number of venues providing this risque showcase. However, it can be a costly outing as most places charge a door fee as well as require a two drink minimum. In these lean times, it is important to conserve, but it is also critical to not constantly surround yourself with gloomy news and warnings of disaster. We all need an escape, what better way then to shuffle on down to the clambering cabaret to watch the glittery gallivanting gams of gorgeous gals?

It's always a joy to watch my girl get ready for an evening out. I'd gotten her a pair of Natacha Marro shoes for Christmas, and she had yet found the opportunity to show them off. Seeing as they are a full 8" (with the 2" platform) i suggested she get in a little home practice with them before fully trotting them out. She settled for a more modest 5" pair of black leather heels, matching it with her white swing dress with red polka dots from DaddyO's.

When we arrived at the venue, even though we arrived early, there was still a line out the door. It never ceases to amaze me how popular this form of entertainment has become over the years, and at the time i remember feeling happy that such a showcase was drawing folks out on a cold Saturday night. I told my girl to go find seats and i would check our coats and get us some cocktails.

When i finally snagged two Manhattans (neat), i looked for my doll. I was pleasantly surprised to find her saving a chair for me right at the foot of the stage, despite the fact that it was standing room only at this point. I squeezed my way forward to find her engaged in several conversations with strangers on one subject alone: her look. She has a very striking, beautiful appearance without all the dolling up. However with a bonnet of tight ebony curls atop her head, white alabaster powder dusting her delicate features, bright brown eyes framed by long sinewy lashes, and her signature cherry red lipstick, she is one of the most stunning sights in any room. She gathers many stares and many inquiries as to where she gets her apparel. Always a modest and polite young lady, she deflects their compliments to the various vendors she patronizes and almost ALWAYS tells people that her waist is only as a result of her corset tightlacing (but for some reason neglects to inform them of her dedicated dietary discipline).

With all of this attention helping to pass the time, the show's start happened upon us much quicker than expected. So far, the night had been very enjoyable, and i looked forward to the evening's card of dancers as the stage's curtain pulled a part for the opening.

The famous Julie Atlaz Muz pranced onto the stage, performing a dazzling routine with feathers and dollar bills tossed into the air like confetti. Following her, a very pretty girl who called herself 'Queen Laqueefa'. Her act was a little more gruff, and eventually surprised me when she showed both her off-limits naked tits and cunt by the end of her appearance. A few more dancers went by, and then we were treated to one of my favorite girls in the circuit. Melody Sweets is a rare talent in the field of burlesque dancers as she not only teases the audience with the peeling off of her clothes, she also tantalizes our ears with her melodic voice singing along with her musical accompaniment. Her act finished the first set, leaving a 30-minute break of go-go dancing from Ms. Muz and Her Royal Highness Laqueefa.

I wish i could say with what had transpired so far, that the evening ended on a high note. However, that was not the case. Once the burlesque festivities re-took the stage, the theme of the routines took on a much grittier, even manic tone to them. A few of the girls performed garish acts of drunken clumsiness, and the glamor and grace of the first half was trampled by raunchy hip gyrations. Even the energy in the audience seemed to shift. Whereas before, the crowd hooted and hollered with supporting aplomb, they now roared with a vitriolic, gutty hunger that seemed to demand chunks of flesh tossed to them. All of this was a perfect setting for the next explosive performer.

Rosewood.

Out stumbled this metallic blue, mohawk haired trollop, a bottle of champagne wagging from her flimsy grip. She'd take a mouthful of the swill and then spray it outward into the audience. Nothing about this act struck me as funny, entertaining or endearing. She continued with this pageantry as if she thought it unique enough that no one on stage in the history of live performance had done the same. But, then, even the projection of her salivatized precipitate wasn't enough. She whipped off her tiny G-string, revealing her even tinier tranny member, and proceeded to piss all over the first row (including myself) of spectators. I couldn't believe what i'd just seen. People scattered, trying to avoid her trail of fountainous urea, and all i could do was sit there in absolute shock and disgust.

Nothing about this was entertaining or engaging. I'm a big believer in taking risks and challenging the established set of ideals and values (if anyone doubts this, please feel free to scan my archives), but this act was just plain trash. Burlesque, when it's good, presents the female form in a frollicky, fun and seductive manner. The tease is in fact its greatest asset. Skimming the bottom of the bucket by taking it all off and putting it on display like a cheap, down on her luck hooker is found in strip clubs across this country already. I find that extremely depressing, demeaning and idiotic. By the time i gathered my thoughts enough to realize what i'd just seen, i put on my jacket and escorted my girl towards the exit, sad that the evening had dipped so low.

Sugasm #161

2009-03-23T09:07:00.002-04:00

Sugasm #161

from Sugasm by Vixen

Betty courtesy of
Badgirl’s Hotbox.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #162? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
The Balance of Power
“A wave of lust coursed through her body at his words”

Betrayal
“What’s this? Evidence of pleasure?”

Secret signals
“I will adore him for it”

Sugasm Editor
Not An Overnight

Editor’s Choice
The Ghost of Abuse

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

The whole she-bang

2009-03-20T10:23:00.001-04:00

Forever an inquisitive young fellow, in my youth i was challenged by my father to constantly question "why?". Always. At all times. Always ask why.

In my logic, this led to some rather harrowing internal interrogations wherein (as is my way) i didn't accept a limit to this line of questioning and eventually took aim upon the purpose and justification for the Universe itself. In much the same way, i have done the exact thing here on these pages, having struck the first match of illumination on the theme of my Big Bang in order to try to uncover more about myself.

I didn't stumble upon the URL of TransformHer accidentally. I knew quite well that hanging over my head like a deliciously ripe piece of fruit just out of reach was this insatiable desire to completely change, alter and modify the female form. And like that scrumptious morsel hanging just out of range, offering me the reality that some desires should never be met, i have come to grips with the fact that there are some transformations i will never (nor should ever) accomplish.

The imagery in my mind of what i'd want to do if given "full rein" could never (nor should it ever) be attempted. My desires are endless abysses that once you get to a certain depth no light or life can be sensed. Rather than plunge head first into a blackhole of narcicisstic oblivion, i participate in an exchange with an incredible life force that allows me to slowly alter her (but alter her. nonetheless). Small, individuated steps, instead of speeding light years to a frightening singularity no one has ever seen or lived to experience.

In a pinch

2009-03-17T15:46:00.004-04:00

I asked my girl. She confessed she'd never heard of it before.

When i turned to my work colleagues for further insight, they looked at me baffled.

Had i honestly made up the tradition as a kid to satisfy my young sadistic mind?

So i did what any self respecting modern citizen would do. I took my query to the Interfog. The only thing that remotely served as an answer was this entry on WikiAnswers:

"Ireland is known as the Emerald Isle. Green is traditionally worn on St. Patrick's day to honor the Emerald Isle. Tradition holds that on that day, people who do not wear green are pinched as a reminder to wear green to honor the Emerald Isle. "

To be honest, that answer hardly cleared up whether i'd fashioned my own response to those young girls in elementary school who didn't show up wearing green on March 17th. I turn to you readers to avail me of your own experiences with the day of emeraldization.

Growing up, i looked forward to two days more than any others for going to school: St. Patty's day and April Fool's. I spent the majority of the four months leading up to the First of April planning my cavalcade of pranks, whereas i ran around all day on the Seventeenth of March pinching every little girl in sight (and yes, for the record, i'd pinch even if they were wearing green, and feign that i was color blind). And to think what trouble i'd get in now if i reinstated that rule...

Slainte, everyone.

I remember them all

2009-03-14T18:02:00.004-04:00

The appetite is a peculiar and most unforgiving fuel. Many things we long for, few are necessary. Some might even say that our tastes are largely artifice, creations of our environment and our history. The small list of necessities - food, water, sleep - makes for a rather simplified diagnosis of how life should be lived. All of our behaviors should be molded so that they can deliver us these bare essentials, and yet the essence of life is very imbalanced and stacked not in our favor. Not only will we never find satisfaction, we will also be faced with this punishment for the entire time we stand on this rock.

But it can be easily said (as evident by those of you who are performing an act that falls outside of "necessity" in order to read these words) that life carries with it much more complexity than just the need for caloric sustenance of our bodies. If the entries i have posted to this site are worth their measure, it can be said that feeding the body is only accomplished in order for us to then feed the soul. I eat life so that i can feast on life.

With that in mind, if we were to examine the banquets i attend or create, there exists a certain number of prerequisites. Among these treasure trove of trinkets and pleasures i pursue, nothing exceeds my desire for beauty and my fascination for decay. When brought together, you get the very spinal chord that houses the central nervous system of The Lustful Quality.

Shelved amongst the inane bits of information and trivia i have gathered over the years, one would find a dozen or so stories of girls who suffered, endured and survived my chemical experiments where i mixed the holistic gift of beauty with the wrenching qualities of decay. Some of those tales would be rather tame, where i fiddled with an adorable chestnut-haired novice for a few days, only to release her back into the wild - unscathed and only mildly marked. And yet, others would turn the most open-minded person's stomach as i retell how i made the innocent (and sometimes not so innocent - but always consenting) girl grovel, prostate, plea and suffer just because i was obsessed with the process of denigrating the gorgeous female form.

I'm not entirely pleased with myself when i think back on these episodes, but i accept them as the collateral damage that i needed to rack up in order for me to understand who i am and what my appetites are. However, let there be no mistake of the cherished place that each of those girls holds in the catalog of my mind. They've made achieving these twisted appetites an honor and a thrill.

eau detour

2009-03-11T08:45:00.002-04:00

I'm sucked into my world, exiting the train, having just folded and placed the paper under my arm. I'm thinking about the meeting i'm running slightly late to, and the meetings that will follow it. My head is several floors above my feet. I'm shuffling in the crowd of people corralling up the stairs from the subway platform, maneuvering through the swarm of random trajectories, each of which are carried with equal rush and importance. I approach the turnstile to exit, and suddenly cross paths with an elegant young lady with the same intentions as i. Extending my hand graciously in front of me, i point her the way, letting her go through the gates before me. As i follow her exit, a cloud of her perfume wafts across my face, spilling into my nostrils. For that instant, i forget any thoughts of any meetings or agendas or floors or skyscrapers.

An intense desire to pounce, to tackle that sweetness and spread my wicked agenda all over that primped and pruned presentation is all i perceive.

The ultimate servant

2009-03-08T14:25:00.010-04:00

The name "Deity" (which is short for DominantDeity) has been a handle i've used when indulging in my sexual kink for many, many years. When i went to play parties, that was the name i registered under. When i entered chatrooms, it was always as 'Deity'. I first employed it in my early twenties, having arrived at it through very little effort. I still remember the short yet very satisfying process that led me to this alter ego. I was trying to come up with something that resonated with my approach to SM and my fetishes, and in the same breath, i wanted to mock the honorifics i'd seen that employed "Master" "Sir" or "Lord". Those felt so artificial to me, nothing i could possibly wield without feeling a sense of awkward detachment from them or, worse, snicker at myself.

I most identified with the creation aspect of the term 'deity', and less so the all-knowing and all-powerful. While the idea of wielding power over a pretty little thing has always enticed me, the spike that strikes directly to my erotic core is the commutation of my desire into a girl which changes her and becomes a native appetite of her own. I saw the formation of impulses and feedback through training, correction and conditioning as a very deific task. I controlled the ingredients and rewards/punishments, wherein my subject responded to this world, following my laws and commandments. This method has momentum to it, a vector that indicates a pathway to an end, which is both aiding and problematic. As my girl has always said, nothing is ever enough for me, but this model suggests that there is a stopping point. The problem is, once reached, what then? (so far, in all of my efforts, i have not reached that point).

Well, an omniscient being would know 'what next', which i never have fancied myself as being. I wonder if other dominant Tops fantasize about attaining that level of cognition, but i know for certain, it is not of interest to me.

Some of you may know this man, others of you will be unfamiliar with him. In this form, he's known as 'Dr. Manhattan' from the graphic novel "Watchmen". Formerly, Jonathan Osterman, the nuclear physicist who was transformed into a superpowered being by an accident involving his own 'instrinsic field' experiments. Dr Manhattan is capable of escaping time, altering all matter, transporting himself and others and completely obliterating any lifeform or object - for all intents and purposes, his freakish transformation has turned him into a deity.

I saw the movie adaptation of the novel this weekend, and two things struck me as i was watching this incredibly violent but engrossing film. The normal, ordinary human John acquired super-human qualities that eventually led him to disconnect from his human mind and aligned him more with his supernatural qualities. He gained the ability to discern time as a human construct and that passion and pleasure were no different than pain and turmoil; once the passage of time has been removed from the discussion, all of them represent a single, identical point. His sudden omniscience removed him of the ability to experience the simple thrill of a delicious meal or a passionate night of sex.

The other thing that struck me came from one particular scene that involved Dr. Manhattan and his love interest, Laurie Juspecyk. In the film, we see a close-up on Laurie's beautiful face, her eyes are closed, her cheeks lifted with arching arousal, and sliding in and out of her open mouth is a bright blue, electrified thumb belonging to the illuminated Dr. Manhattan. The camera zooms out a bit, showing multiple, glowing limbs caressing Laurie's cheek, tugging her hair, fondling her tits, pinning her arm to the mattress. It becomes clear to the viewer that this superfreak has multiplied himself in order to do quite the erogenous number on his lover. In the throngs of ecstasy, Laurie pulls herself to the fore and notices this aberration and freaks out about it. She leaps from the bed, only to see in addition to duplicating himself so that he could exponentially pleasure her, that he's also placed a version of himself in his lab, in order to keep up with his top secret work. Laurie confronts the incandescent man about his apparent insensitivity toward their intimacy. Cold, and emotionless, Dr. Manhattan responds, "I was doing what i thought would give you pleasure."

I reflected on this episode for a long time after the film ended. I'd read the book that has now become the wildly anticipated film, but the position made about supreme beings in the movie didn't come across quite as boldly. After viewing this scene, it became very clear that Dr. Manhattan, despite what his possession of ultimate power would suggest, was truthfully a very gifted servant. This drew up past theological lessons of mine from college that demonstrated that God was in fact the ultimate servant - because he could control everything, all that was left was to serve those of us who resided in His fishbowl. If He abandoned us, we perished. If He attended to our every need, we flourished.

I'm left with questions about power between a dominant Top and a submissive bottom. If the bottom's goal is to serve every whim and desire of their Top, who then has the supreme power? Perhaps, i'm not as in control as i presume. And, perhaps, more importantly, my chosen moniker is in fact mistaken.

Under my wing

2009-03-05T09:21:00.006-05:00

I've had several positions of employment in my life that cover various industries and vocations (i've been fired from a handful of those, all for the same reason - an inability to take orders from my supervisor). The jobs that i struggled in the most were those that had no social component to it, and instead left me isolated on my own either operating some tool or machine while performing some mundane, repetitive task. I require interaction. I thrive off the energy that occurs when you dance with someone conversationally. I need to be able to toss in a self-deprecating remark or be a complete smart ass while tackling a project, or i feel cold and inactive. I do best in a situation where i can serve as a mentor, a counselor and an expert of some kind.

I received my yearly appraisal for my performance at my job the other day. As i was sitting in my boss's office, listening to him laud my contributions and my dependability to always overachieve (his words exactly), i thought over the parade of stints i have undertaken. I've mostly enjoyed my periods of employment, some more than others, but one position stood out to me as the finest job i've ever held.

I put myself through college via a creatively assembled cocktail of student loans and work-study assignments. While my fellow students were busy pickling their livers with the trust funds dear ole Dad set up for them, i was shelving books, cleaning headphones and cataloguing rare copies of hand-written Sibelius compositions. I longed for a more fulfilling and fitting way for me to matriculate through my higher education. When i first learned of the position of Resident Advisor (or R.A. as it is commonly known in the States), it seemed like a glorified camp counselor which didn't at all ring any bells in me. But once i read past the job description and came upon the compensation details (free room and board), i was sold.

I was convinced that i needed to become an R.A. I finetuned every electrical impulse in my body to affectively adjust their frequency so that i would acquire a position as an R.A. Despite it being the job most competed for on campus, i was able to secure a role at the University's oldest and most prestigious dormitory. However, i learned that there was some flub in my paperwork, which delayed my hiring and in turn affected my floor assignment. Apparently, the least desired floor was the very bottom, also known as "The Pit", and since i was Johnny-come-lately, this was the one i got bumped to.

Me being me, i accepted my commission without question, but was intent on changing the historic image of the cellar dwellers. Before i even took residence, i instituted an immediate revocation of any nominal reference to "The Pit", and instead insisted people refer to the lowest floor as the "Garden Level". To my surprise, on the first day i moved my belongings into my spacious apartment, i discovered the single aspect about my duty that would dominate all else. Because of the potentially dicey security matter of the rooms being on the lowest floor, the administrators saw fit to make it exclusively male (this despite the fact that the rest of the residence hall was explictly co-ed) with the thought that no pervert would break through a window that had two guys nestled behind it. To provide the R.A. assigned to this detail with a well-rounded experience, the administrators jerry-rigged a portion of the building just above the 'garden level' (ten dorm rooms in all), making it the only female-only wing in the entire University housing system.

Now, i won't make false assertions that my time as an R.A. wasn't rift with diverse experiences that made the job completely fulfilling and worth it, because that would be false and misleading. However, having my own, secluded floor of young, freshmen girls where i could act as den leader, grand vizier and overall father figure is precisely the reason i held that post for two and a half years. I confess that every social program i designed, every media campaign i instituted, and every outreach i established was targeted at those ten girl-only dorm rooms, and only then did it sadly filter down to the 24 rooms below. Each of my girls received their own unique nicknames (I have a thing for giving people nicknames - the name you were given somehow isn't enough), whereas the same gesture was not extended to my Garden Level inhabitants. In fact, in two and a half years, i had well over 60 male residents, but i can't remember a single name of any of them. However, i can easily recall each and every nickname ever lent out to my female residents.

I won't say that hanky panky didn't occur between me and any of my girls (perhaps, unethically, far too much took place) but that's not what made that experience such a sweet spot in my library of experiences. I adored the young, uncertain, in need of trust, young lady who would knock on my always unlocked door to come chat with me about this homework assignment or that dickhead of an ex-boyfriend. What made this experience worthwhile wasn't that i screwed as many young women as conceivably possible, but that i was able to get closer - if just a few inches, and a over just a few minutes - to a bundle of feminine energy. Easily, my very favorite energy of all.

Tapped

2009-03-02T11:21:00.003-05:00

I can feel it. It's like a slightly bad taste in the back of my mouth. Almost sourness.

I've been authoring the Lustful Quality for nearly two years, and my interest in continuing to do so waxes and wanes. I currently happen to be in a trough. A rather deep one, which can be seen in the delay between my posts (and perhaps even sensed in the words).

Well, one of the ways i know that rejuvenates my passion to share on these pages is to present myself with challenges. For a new challenge, i'd like to tap my audience.

I invite all of you to ask me the question you've always wanted to ask me, but were afraid to ask. The naughtier, seedier and riskier the better. I can't promise i'll offer an answer publicly (due to privacy issues) to all of them, but those i can, i will take the opportunity to spill my beans upon these cavernous walls.

Either leave your question in my comments, or if you prefer, you can e-mail them to me: dominantdeity (at) gmail (dot) com.

Now, don't be shy, let'em fly.

in and out

2009-02-27T14:33:00.004-05:00

the breath that once great minds respired,
that for centuries has sustained the lives
of thousands, millions more
and hung in the atmosphere, hovering over
epochal moments in history
now
passes through your lips, nestling in your lungs
only to swim freely in your veins
feeding your muscles, your flesh, the warmth
in your cheek
this brings life to you
this brings you to me

Betrayal

2009-02-23T14:43:00.002-05:00

The human body's existence receives the bulk of most economical, academic and scientific interest - most of that attention gets focused on the behavior of myriad, different receptors whose reaction then dictates the direction or vector the body housing them will move. Marketers utilize imagery, sound and words to stimulate a diverse panoply of reactions that you may or may not be aware of and certainly cannot control. Scientists study the neural patterns that make up the traffic on the information superhighway of our central nervous system just to try to decipher how this wiring determines our well-being and recovery from a trauma to the head. All of us carry inside intricate systems of receiving messages communicated through various methods, and how our bodies respond determines the way we look at the world, others and ourselves. Yet, we haven't the faintest idea how things have the impact that they do.

For instance, i cannot explain what it is about seeing a girl with well-manicured but obviously fake fingernails, but my body has an immediate and visible reaction. I could try to apply a great deal of psycho-babble about how these nails extend her fingers which in turn bring her closer to me, or better they lengthen what is already a beautiful feminine feature (similar to how a heel lengthens the line of a woman's leg), but neither of those explain why and how my body chooses to react to the sight of artificial ungulas. Thankfully, i've been able to surround myself with females who happily take their beautiful digits to a manicurist, not to mention that i don't find the influence from these ornaments inconvenient. What of those stimulants that do produce a response we are not happy with?

'Betrayal' is a word my girl has used. Her body betrays her. My darling girl is by no means a hard-core masochist, and sees pain as a way to challenge and to push her body's limits. When presented with the idea of a spanking, she doesn't leap out of her seat with great glee like she would should i tell her the budget for her next corset. We might be in the middle of a particularly fiery swatting session, and she will snarl over her shoulder at me, "Goddammit!!! That HURTS!!!", punctuated by her feet stomping into the ground (should they be free to move). This, for those keeping score, is not someone who mentally enjoys the pain the corporal punishment slices across her flesh. However, everytime - EVERYTIME, my fine friends - i reach in between her legs at the end of her persecution, her cunt is sopping wet.

"What's this? Evidence of pleasure?"

"N-n-n-nooooo, no it's not! It can't be...i don't understand."

Betrayal...i'd say it's more like what the mind doesn't know can't really hurt it.

a heart in winter

2009-02-20T18:39:00.003-05:00

At a very early age, i quite well comprehended the notion of romantic love. In fact, the act of charting the rough waters of someone else's heart was always more invigorating to me than making out with them. Don't get me wrong, i wanted to kiss the girl - but that was mere kindling to the fire i hoped to stoke in her chest. I spent more ink and paper writing out clumsy emotives about how the air around my crush seemed to react to her beauty instead of describing the carnal ways in which i planned to screw her. I didn't avoid sexual imagery, it just seemed two-dimensional. Whereas, hooking into a young lass' soul and using it to draw her into a theatre of longing felt multi-dimensional to me.

This approach to the opposite sex was reflected in my film tastes (i am a self-professed cinephile, having seen well over 6,000 films - so it makes sense to use my cinematic appetite as a character witness). In high school, i developed a penchant for French romantic films (which really should be a genre all to its own). These films were not straightforward love narratives where girl meets boy, they fall in love, gratuitous happy ending follows. Rather, they would most likely consist of girl (who's already in a relationship) meets boy (who could be in a relationship too, but either way is inaccessible), they fall in love (truly she falls more for him than he for her), and it ends abruptly with both of them painfully longing for eachother yet realizing "this. cannot. be." Longing. The torture inherent in unrequited-but-obviously-existing love fascinated and stimulated me to no end. One of my favorite films of this type was Claude Sautet's "Un coeur en hiver"

It was my first introduction to the stunning Emmanuelle Beart. I have always developed huge crushes on screen idols (Phoebe Cates, Jennifer Connelly, Audrey Tatou to name a few) but none have ever reached the level of exasperating obssession as it did with Mme. Beart. At one point, i'd collected well over 100 print images of her from magazines, and any film she ever laid one dainty finger in i made sure to fastidiously view. In this particular movie, she played a young, extremely talented violinist whose career required custom-made instruments. It just so happens that the best in the business at hand-crafting wooden works of art was Stephane (played by Daniel Auteuil, Emmanuelle's eventual - albeit short-lived - husband). However, Stephane was someone who enjoyed the game of attraction more than the actual outcome. He expertly played Camille (Emmanuelle's character) like a fiddle, gaining her devoted adoration by film's end. However, Stephane cannot return this golden affection for his heart is in a deep, deep Winter. The film concludes with them briefly sharing a table at a typically beautiful, Parisian cafe, parsing some pleasantries before they stare into eachother's eyes with the knowledge that this - this pristine, romantic presentation - is all it will ever be between them. Camille departs, and the film ends with both of them training their eyes off into the distance, numb, cold, uncertain - overwhelmed and stunned by their mutual longing.

I was reminded of this film today as the memory of my somewhat uncustomary adolescent experience with romance popped into my head. What seems like eons ago, i wrote on the subject of how i have approached every romantic entanglement, declaring that it always requires the acquisition of consent from the maiden before i proceed. Perhaps i've made this connection before, but today it sunk home as i was traversing the cold urban streets, contemplating the long hunger that comes with winter. The character of Stephane had made his imprint on every relationship i'd attempted since first viewing his calculating meanderings. I sought to sustain that longing. Like a forceful gale filling the belly of a high sail, i turned my stern towards the gusts of unimpeded emotional fuel.

I'm not sure what this ultimately says about me. I know that in my minustrations, i strive to be incredibly didactic and controlled, and perhaps this has the effect of closing off a large portion of myself from potential romantic harm. Mine may often be a heart in winter, but one that is always aware that Spring and all the life/passion/animation it brings is blissfully around the corner.

des pieces

2009-02-16T19:30:00.005-05:00

- Sitting at the counter of a local greasy spoon - well known for their choice burgers - K and i recently caught up, him having just come from a satisfying session of flexible rope bondage involving one of the few girls he plays with. Before we were to meet up, i contemplated the venue for our 'reconnaitre', and the (incredibly rare) appetite for a rare, bloody burger popped into my head. When we met on the street corner, i suggested several locations, but for some reason, i avoided what my body was telling me. Needing to replenish his constitution, K spoke up:

"I'd really like a hamburger."

I, of course, seconded. As we watched the grill jockeys flip and fabricate their way through order after order of the reputed menu item, K and i discussed many topics. We didn't shade the volume of our voice in order to avoid offending the prudish sensibilities of those around us. As what happens whenever we gather, we riffed off of eachother. He's someone with whom i can truly examine my sadistic proclivities without any abashed zeal, or any antagonistic need to shock or show off.

As the evening grew a longer beard, we sat on our stools, feasting on barely cooked meat, and giddily expressing ways in which we had been insatiablly maniacal bastards to our respective partners.

"She actually thought to ask me to lower the blinds, which she soon regretted as our performance suddenly took place at the window's edge."

"Right as i was asking her if she was ready for me to remove the zipper, i prematurely pulled a few clothespins off her flesh. 'Whoops! Sorry about that'."

Towards the end of the evening, the conversation - which had moved to a local dive bar - turned to an exploration about why 'corruption' remains such an addicting elixir for me. This online journal is something that represents decades-worth of the enticing notion that i can corrupt the minds of innocent females. There is no mistake that the mass majority of my readers are female (as well as those few who choose to comment). I told K how i scan the daily statistics of those who visit "The Lustful Quality", looking not for deep purse strings to finance my larger literary dreams, but some indication that the person attached to the IP address holds all the feminine qualities i seek to torment.

Honestly, one cannot glean such information. But, one can dream.

- Recently, i've had to travel alone a great deal for work. These days (aka. in a committed relationship), that means eating a lot of meals alone. I do not enjoy eating alone. Let me rephrase that. I LOATHE eating alone, and do whatever i can to avoid it. However, my physionomy will do all in its power to make the time away from home all the more taxing. Translation: for whatever reason, when i travel alone for business, my libido is exacerbatingly high.

To remedy this, i will go to whatever local eatery i can stomach, in the hopes that it will have a large number of female clientele and/or waitstaff (i assume the food will be paltry). There have been many times when i've turned around and left the establishment if i saw there would be no feminine sundry on which i could gander. When i do stay, i usually request a table off in the corner, where i can look out across the entire floor, and, almost as if they were part of my appetizer, visually devour whatever dainty creature crosses my view. This only gets me through the meal, however.

Once i return all by myself to my unnecessarily large hotel room, i'm faced with an excess of leisure time to myself (seeing as i do not watch TV, i must entertain myself in other ways). In the past, i would've arranged to have some delicate flower's services for the duration of my stay. But, those days are, without any regret, in the past. Instead, i've loaded up a flash drive with several gigabytes-worth of assorted SM kink that, when not completing work, i'm spending long periods of time in my hotel room perusing. I'm not sure what it is about travelling by myself that increases my general arousal, but its elevation is unmistakable.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

2009-02-12T20:21:00.004-05:00

In the city where i live, it is law that all citizens sort their garbage so that items that can be recycled are placed in separate (and color-coordinated) bags than regular refuse. In order to help educate the populace on which objects can be recycled and which cannot, the Sanitation Department has produced diagrams with smiling cartoony recycling containers and trash bins, illustrating the most common detritus that can be recycled and that which can be tossed. To me, it's pretty easy to decipher that which can be saved from that which should be junked. However, that is not apparently the case for others who reside in the city, because the Sanitation Department is frequently sending out these illustrations as well as issuing citations to those who fall in violation. People just can't seem to glean the fundamental guidelines. Unfortunately, my girl is among the guilty ones.

I attend to most of the hauling of our trash to the curb, including bundling it up. Invariably, since she and i began cohabitating, i have found some contraband in the recycling bins that should go in the wastebasket. Despite the fact that i would point out to her that syran wrap was not in fact an eligible item for recycling, i could expect in the intervening days to find an illegal ball of cellophane in with the perfectly legal glass bottles. Now, i realized that i treaded a very fine line here. I chose not to admonish her, to reduce her with humiliation in order to make my point. That would be counterproductive because the lesson rammed down her throat wouldn't stick, not to mention it would make her feel the wrong kind of grief. I'd gain nothing from that, and would come off as a complete boar. I knew i needed to address it another way.

One Friday, the opportunity arose for me to make our weekly corrections do double duty. I retrieved her locking leather wrist cuffs, placing them on the bed. I then went into the kitchen, and took down from the wall the aforementioned diagram from the Sanitation Department that i tacked above our trash can. Stepping back into the bedroom, i hid the diagram off to the side, then called my girl from across the apartment. In she scooted, offering her non-verbal acceptance of what was about to happen with her scooped shoulders, her retracted bottom lip and her raised eyebrows. After watching her remove her skirt and panties, I instructed her to bend over forward, lying her wrists across the railing of the bed's footboard. I shackled each of her wrists, then clipped the leather cuffs to the steel curvature just beneath the railing. Once she was securely fastened, i pulled out the diagram and laid it on the bed, right beneath her chin.

"What's this for?"

"Spread your legs, and stick your butt up. Up and out."

She complied, lifting the fleshy mounds of her naked buttocks up into the air, like hanging peaches rising to greet the morning sun. She studied the diagram before her - exactly what i had intended.

"I want you to read outloud all of the items on the list of non-recyclables. Read them out, one by one."

"Take-out containers, soiled paper cups and plates, paper towels and napkins, plastic wrap..."

She continued through the list, unsure quite where this was leading. Once she finished, i asked her to count the number of items on the ineligible list.

"17"

"Correct. That is the cycle of swats you will get today. Now, i want you to read out every item, and finish with 'Please may i have a spanking, sir?' Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Proceed."

She took a deep breath and looked back at me in order to sneak a quick peak at whatever implement i may have in my hands. Her peak yielded very little, for i was intending to use only my fleshy digits.

"Take-out containers. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"

*THWACK*

I slapped my palm across both of her prone ass cheeks. This locomotion stirred up a fresh perfume into the air that immediately greeted my nostrils. In the waft of odor, i could smell that my girl was most certainly aroused by this stratagem.

"Soiled paper cups and plates. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"

*THWACK*

"Paper towels and napkins. Please, may i have a spanking, sir?"

*THWACK*

She made her way through three recitations of the list, enduring a total of 51 strokes across her exposed flesh. At the end, i do believe a good number of the off-limit items stuck into her memory. To this date, i can report that i have not yet found an ineligible item in the bins. That ultimately means either she learned her lesson, or finally learned to reference the diagram unsubtly tacked to the wall above the trash receptacle.

Either way, i can safely say recycling has become easier in the House of Deity.

SadiststidaS

2009-02-07T14:54:00.005-05:00

We sadists are mean with focus. We are also focused entirely on the means.

We punish with little regard, and regard our punishment with great delight.

We have long, unbending visions. Most times, our vision depends entirely on your flexibility.

We experience joy through the most perverse ways. We are most perverse where joy can be experienced.

We give pain calculatingly, even coldly. We calculate the pain we give by the respondent's temperature.

We snicker menacingly when cries arise. Crying is an unlaughable menace to us.

We torture as a way to connect to our victim. Our victim must be tortured in order for us to allow them to connect with us.

We chide and mock your suffering. Your lack of suffering mocks and chides us.

We seek your struggle and resignation, and only resign once you've stopped struggling.

We do not wince when exacting strain upon your body. Our bodies strain to hold back whenever you wince.

Our push grows in intensity the instant we see you first pout. The more you pout the more we push.

We tighten the knots despite your protests. Your protests only reinforce why we tie the knots so tightly.

We ask that you count the strokes across your flesh to impart order. In order to strike your flesh, we insist that you are aware of how many counts you've incurred.

We're assholes. We love your assholes.

The Universe will have its way

2009-02-04T14:09:00.006-05:00

"In the morning I'd awake and couldn't remember
What is love and what is hate - the calculations error
Oh-oh-oh-what is love and what is hate
And why does it matter - is to love just a waste
Why does it matter - oh - oh - ooh - ???

As the dawn began to break - I had to surrender
The universe will have its way - to powerful to master
Oh-oh-oh-what is love and what is hate
And why does it matter - is to love just a waste
Why does it matter - oh - oh - ooh - ???"
-The Flaming Lips, "In the Morning of the Magicians"

Quite recently, i was enjoying a very relaxing moment of sitting on the couch (something that, i stress, is a rarity for me) with my girl and watching one of my favorite things: nature documentaries. In this case it happened to be one of the episodes of the BBC's Planet Earth. A completely fantastic series that shows stunning scenarios and equally stunning cinematography. I highly recommend it. As i was watching a pack of wolves chase a gigantic herd of caribou across the frozen tundra of the Artic Circle, my mind pontificated on the reasons the BBC had chosen to document this natural process and redistribute it to us, the masses. What i concluded was somewhat troubling. They were demonstrating something that takes place in nature every second of every minute of every day. Something that's so commonplace, yet, it looks to us the audience like something exotic, foreign - worse - fantasy. We're so removed from the act of merely surviving by horribly taxing and violent means. Instead, we can witness this rigamarole from the comforts of our living rooms, outfitted with surround sound and high-definition visuals to make it all the more "real".

And then i got to thinking about what most of us are faced with in these dire economic times. Less. Much, much less. Be it simple luxuries like a night of martinis to the even more direr situation of impending foreclosure or layoffs, we all must learn to do with minimized resources. As i heard the recent news that Mattel fell far short of its forecasted sales of toys from this past Christmas, i couldn't help but feel a little relief. Taking out the human factor that this news most likely means that employees of that company may face layoffs, there was something comforting that people had chosen to not binge on as many toys as they normally would for the holidays. We do need to learn to get by with less. We consume way too much. We're too removed from the notion that life is struggle. That there is, as the Flaming Lips say above, very little difference between love and hate when put in context with the much larger, chaotic Universe.

Because my mind does not lend itself to leisure, it took this thought even further. I pondered my own "needs". One way to look at why we are here on this big rock is that we must do all we can to recreate ourselves in our kin. That everything stems from the act of procreation, and nothing else matters. Through this lense, one can view all of this pomp and puffery i proffer here at The Lustful Quality as unnecessary pilferage. I completely understand that viewpoint. I myself often struggle with my own desires of the material kind, as well as how my sexuality largely serves as a shrine to materialism. There are times i inventory my kinky supplies and at once want to toss them all to the curb out of shame for such meaningless consumption. Thankfully, however, i come to my senses.

I do not engage in the activities documented here out of gluttony or avarice. Yes, these are the exploits of my sexuality, but they are also the expressions of my spirituality. I vociferously do not believe that the only reason we are on this planet is just to recreate ourselves. Rather, we are here to create beauty - as often and as largely as is possible. Even in my largest grandeuristic visions of hubris, i realize i cannot control the Universe. It will do that fine on its own. But, i do take the responsibility of upholding my role in it quite seriously.

If these demands go unmet

2009-02-01T08:05:00.001-05:00

I wanted to surprise you today, so i slipped this note into your lunch bag before you left for work. You're probably wondering what i am upto. Well, at this moment, i'm making some alterations to your place that will make it appear unfamiliar. When you come home, you're going to do something for me.

Tonight, you are going to kidnap yourself.

When you leave your office, you will be followed. Don't try to discover the person trailing you, they will be very well concealed. Once you arrive, you are to leave your front door slightly ajar. Facing you upon your entrance will be a chair, situated in the middle of your living room. Lying on the seat, you will see two sets of locking cuffs, a thick locking leather posture collar, a heavy burlap sack and a white silk scarf.

You are to strip down to your underwear, leaving only your bra and stockings on. Sit yourself into the chair, then first, lock the ankle cuffs on each leg, making sure to run the connecting chain underneath the chair. Then, lock one of the wrist cuffs to just one of your hands. Take the silk scarf, and tightly gag yourself with it, tying it behind your head. Rest the posture collar in your lap, then, take the burlap sack and pull it over your head. Follow this with the posture collar, snapping closed the attached brass padlocks. When all is completed, take the other wrist cuff, and latch the free hand behind the chair.

Take note of your breathing. Feel how hot your captured breath makes your face. Open your eyes, and drown in the darkness. Listen to each footstep that comes up the stairwell. Will they stop at your door? These thoughts are the only thing you will be able to do. Otherwise, your fate is to...just...wait.

Sugasm #157

2009-01-31T16:39:00.000-05:00

Sugasm #157

from Sugasm by Vixen

Ariel courtesy of Viviane’s Sex Carnival.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #158? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
A 2009 Wish For Smut Writers
“Sex bloggers are on the cusp of what I see as being a new kind of sexual revolution.”

Q&A with Domina Doll
“I enjoy teaching others how to explore that aspect of themselves.”

Overtaken
“He kissed the side of my neck, sweeping my long hair out of the way, working his mouth across the side of my neck to press little bites along my collarbone.”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Honesty: When The Truth Hurts

Editor’s Choice
Dictation with Davis

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

BDSM & Fetish
A year of lustful quality

Musk be something in the air

2009-01-29T21:50:00.001-05:00

My girl recently got a new job (can you imagine? in this economic climate?) which offered her fantastic benefits. One of those perks was a dual membership to a high quality sports gym (in this city, that means one with a full-sized pool). For the past decade plus, i'd abstained from ascribing my monetary loyalty to a single center of recreation, instead staying fit and nimble through homemade methods. For both economical and rational reasons, i have avoided this atmosphere for the longest time. However, this offer was in fact too good to pass up.

A good portion of my perspiration is earned in the 'weight room' which is situated three floors above the cardio equipment. Almost exclusively, this weight room is the chief dominion of the male side of the species. This alone was the chief reason gyms quite repelled me.

I can't stand men. Plain and simple. Throughout my life, the mass majority of my social outlets have emanated from the fairer sex. I have very few close male friends as the interests that most men seem to attach themselves to offer very little to me. I do not watch football on Sundays (to those non-US readers, that would be the NFL and its upcoming "Super" Bowl). When caught in a conversation with a large number of XY-chromosoned fellas, i find myself saying little, and caring even less about what others actually say. Men in groups are lewd, thoughtless, and incredibly moronic. I've been witness to their remarks about an attractive female who passes by, lucky enough to survive with her panties in tact based on the slimy comments tossed her way. If given the choice, i would always choose the company of the delicate female creature.

Men in gyms are even worse than they are sitting at a table in a public park, people watching. They stare at themselves in the mirror as they curl the heavy weight in their grip, admiring the virility that bulges from every flexed nook and cranny. The huffing and puffing as they struggle to complete yet another body-shredding exercise stands as the single, biggest irritant i'm exposed to in this setting. I take this pageant of masculine excess as the main reason that few ladies venture up to the metal-pumping floor. Until just recently, this bothered me, feeling an inequality existed in the general fitness between both genders. And then, one afternoon, my sense of smell felt the need to weigh into this debate.

I have an incredibly attuned sensory system, with my olfactory skills exceeding all the other senses. I was squatting on the ground, performing repetition after repetition of what's known as the "Woodcutter's swing", which involved me tugging on a rope that was attached to a pulley further attached to a pile of weighted plates. In this position - legs spread, crotch front and center - i could clearly make out the dense, leathery scent of my musk. It wafted into the air, smelling exactly like it does when i'm engaged in some frantic, coital act. At first, i was startled - and very embarrassed. After all, i'd only been working on the resistance machines. There was no feminine stimulation that could explain my body's reaction. But then i began to piece it together. Watching these men grunt, gyrate, flex and heave, they were spending every ounce of testosterone they had in their bodies, and no wonder that someone doing this would give off the same perfume as someone who was mating.

With this in mind, it became very clear why this workout room was mainly a sausage party. Regarding the kind of behavior that takes place in this domain, I can clearly see the wisdom in those females who choose to avoid this overtly masculine cesspool.

I put my future in her mouth

2009-01-25T07:49:00.002-05:00

Parading all over my hands, you would find at any random time minor cuts, burns, bruises and other evidence of me putting my appendages into precarious, and slightly risky situations. Slicing an onion incredibly thin; testing the temperature of a lamb tangine i'm cooking, and searing my skin on the edge of the lid; trying to do a pull-up using just the thin frame of a door. I view not just my hands, but all of my limbs as tools to be tested, stretched and challenged.

I remember when the idea for that night's correction flashed into my head. I was crossing a street i've crossed a hundred times before. But, this intersection rarely displayed a walk signal long enough for even the most athletic pedestrian to make passage. As i was bolting across, just missing the front fender of a speeding cab, the notion of risk popped into my head. I knew immediately how the evening's affair was to take place.

When i arrived home, i saw that my girl had preceded me by a few minutes. She knew that within some window of time from my arrival, the administration of whatever scheme i'd devised would occur. For that reason, rather than change out of her daily wear, she knew my preference was for her to remain fully laced until the conclusion of her correction. We kissed our hello's and i dismounted from the work posture i'd held all day, dropping off my satchel and coat in my bureau. Already, just glimpsing the prelude to the upcoming attraction, a thick bulge had grown in my trousers. I retrieved, from the corner, the wooden paddle with the long handle, placing it on my chair.

I called out to her in the living room, "Darlin, come into my room after you've removed your panties."

Sounds of a shuffle of undergarments came from the front of the apartment, replaced by footsteps on the hallway tile. The first thing her eyes fell upon was the paddle in my hands. In those moments, i'm curious what she's thinking. Is it dread? Is it comfort? I dare not pause the moment to inquire.

"Come here and kneel facing me. I want you to reach back with your hands, and lift up your dress so that you expose your buttocks."

I watched her unveil the white mounds whose curves dismantle most of my gentlemanly behavior. I unzipped my pants, and extracted the extremely rigid appendage, letting it point up towards her chin.

"We're going to have a lesson. Without using your hands, you will give me a blowjob. Throughout it, i will swat you with the paddle if i do not find any part of it enjoyable. Understood?"

She nodded her head, and opened her mouth. She swallowed me halfway, and then began to bob her head up and down.

*SWAT!*

"No teeth!"

She squirmed and groaned, continuing to stroke me with her mouth. Her lips bulged over the now fully erect girth.

*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*

"I said NO teeth."

More groans. Her fingers clenched on the material of her dress. Her sucking took on an urgency, a frenzy. She wanted to perform well, but being corrected mid-performance drove her to an edge.

*SWAT!*

"Noise, make some noise."

Her groans yielded to moans, as hungry hums traveled around the gag. Drool slithered down her chin, as she looked in my eyes with an animal fire behind them.

*SWAT! SWAT!*

"Faster!"

*SWAT! SWAT!*

"Make me believe you like sucking cock, make me see you need this."

The slurping sounds sprayed across the walls of my bureau, which intensified the sensations of my approaching orgasm.

*SWAT! SWAT! SWAT! SWAT!*

Just before exploding, i pulled out, grabbed the back of her hair, pointing her head up to the ceiling. I bent down and kissed her soaked lips deeply.

I whispered into her ear,"You did very good." Then lifted her from the floor, and led her to the bedroom. The risk i took with this limb needed some rewarding.

The lustful quality of watching her erotic demise

Closing up shop

Porn: the scapegoat

Matters undermind

The weight

Dominating the conversation

In response to "Amanly"

Amanly

This mask

Context

Ample

Spank me, already!

Alone again, naturally

Sustenance

awake

Appliqué

Indications

They're here

Reason #48 for my anonymity

Putting pressure on myself

He said to shine them for the Fat Lady

Burlessque and less

Complete absurdity

A year of a little less lustful quality

Outside

Where else would i put these thoughts?

Top me, oh Top me, please.

Myjaculate

Boy training

Medium well done

Help Wanted

Kitty's Response

Girl training

you are safe

The Dungeon

Worn out

My collection

A complete dick

Wherein Deity gets stalked, Part I

The difference being

In reflection

Routine

Turning it on myself

Paix resistance

Can i join you?

Moot lighting

Sly old fox

Lynch/fetish

The Slut vs. the Lady, revisited

My addiction

His departure

Meditation: Body in Parts

The Cherrypicker

The Time

The Saddle

The Balancing Act

Lead the Way

A very, very bad girl!

printemps

Don't answer

Wandher off

Halcyon

Even a sadist has his limits

Break

A bitter pill to swallow

How much kink can you accomplish in the dark?

Stripsleaze

Sugasm #161

Sugasm #161

Betty courtesy ofBadgirl’s Hotbox.

The whole she-bang

In a pinch

I remember them all

eau detour

The ultimate servant

Under my wing

Tapped

in and out

Betrayal

a heart in winter

Betty courtesy of
Badgirl’s Hotbox.