Matters undermind

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 difference being

"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.

His departure

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

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.

Mydentity

There are days that i want to plop a picture of myself, or my girl, onto the celluloid of this site, declaring once and for all a face to match the name, the words. For those of you who have paid attention, the only declarative image of either of us are those found in a few posts or the ocular avatar staring at you, the reader. All of these are meant to be obscure, indefinite and unadherent.

I've had a public persona, dabbling for awhile in the SM scene under this very same handle i ply here, but that's not quite the same. Few people "stumbled" upon the bondage clubs where i might give a demonstration of which of my submissive's buttocks were more tolerant than the other, whereas there are many who happen upon this site completely unintentionally. With that brings a greater risk of my professional life intersecting with my personal, and as i dabble in games of ill repute and social taboos, it is too much of a liability. I still remember the day when, while scanning the lineup of visitors to Lustful Quality via my site statistics, i came across a visitor who had the same IP address that was assigned to my office's network. I panicked. Had someone discovered my identity, these archives, was blackmail to ensue? Luckily, nothing came about it, and it turned out to be a glitch in the software, but it made me think.

It made me think how angry i am that despite my comfort and openness about this side of my life, i still feel the need to conceal it and hide it away from 98% of the people in my life. It made me confront the overall ignorance of society (i distinguish this from "people", because clearly, individuals have an inclination to SM-related material due to how often i find a new web journal popping up of someone exploring this avenue in their lives), and perhaps accept that there will never come a day where my professional life can happily fall in the comfortable shadow of this passion, this desire, this need.

I pursue SM and my fetishes out of a driving impulse to discover more about myself, which in turn is my way of not rejecting my appetites and nuances. I don't do this every few days, once a week, or even when the occasional moment strikes me. I do it every single minute of every single day. And sometimes it gets very old having to hide this albatross.

World Whyed Web

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By any other name

What's in a name? Vowels? Consonants? Heritage? Symbolism?

I personally never felt like the name i'd been given ever suited me. I never organically attached to it. When i look in the mirror i don't think i look like a forbearer of the prenomenclature my parents selected for me. Frequently, there will be moments when a companion is staring straight at me, speaking to me, referring to me by my name, and i don't feel like they are directing their words at me - must be someone else they are talking to.

This syndrome has carried itself so far that i have (like the true dominant character i am) adopted a new name (no, not Deity), that i introduce myself to people as (including my girl), sign any correspondence with, and even have on all my official documentation. For this very reason, i recognize the power names can have. As i examined the other day my own reasons for handpicking a different handle than the one my folks felt suited me, i realized a great deal of it came down to sex and my own sexual identity. I associate control with my sexuality. Superficially, i could not survive under a label that i myself did not choose. In fact, every single one of my acquaintances has a nickname i've given them (whether i've told them this or not - it is true), so not only have i taken to choose my own holla, i've chosen the one's for those i know too (i know...).

More importantly, our sexual identities develop independent of our pre-selected names. In fact, our sexualities represent prime real estate that we're able to actually take a first crack at shaping. As i pushed further into my mind to clarify this association between names and sex, i saw that my desires - to dominate a girl; to torture her; to enforce a strict dress and disciplinary code on her - had absolutely, 100% nothing to do with what i was called. During scenes, i made girls refer to me as "Sir" or "Mr. *blank*". Never, not once were they allowed to use my first name.

I know for a fact that when every sensor on my body has been aroused and highly sensitized, i am the furthest point away from feeling an association to my name. I'm not slapping her flesh, sadistically giggling, pushing her limits, fucking my body into her core - someone else is. The me that calls up the bank teller to check my account balance (more name verification), is not the same "me" that has abandoned all custom, all manner and in various ways is patently slamming into the consenting female before me. That me goes by a different title (perhaps Deity - i honestly don't know), but i know that when i'm at that level (depending on your perspective, that high or that low), i have absolutely zero cognizance of the world within i'm typically arranged.

I'm not sure, however, if that reduces the power names have on us, or in fact does the opposite - by avoiding them, i'm acknowledging how powerful names are.

Names are never solitary; never signify just one aspect of a person. Hitchhikers ride off the tail syllables and hide in the accents and nuances of each inflection. Names come with stories. Most come with pasts. ALL of them come with vibrations.

Resonating in every object in the universe, vibrations compile all that we are. A person will grow, they will change. Their features will shift and fluctuate but the signature of the frequency in their name remains the same, marked with the directions for anyone with the right skills to uncover your true identity.

Coffee with Deity

Hi. I'm Stormy, here only in Deity's temporary absence. You'll have him back soon, I promise.
---------

Last year sometime, Deity wrote a post about the day we first met. I thought it was lovely piece of writing when I read it. Seductive and erotic undertones that pulled me as much as the meeting itself.

As his faithful readers know well, Deity has a way with words that make the scary things seem... tempting. Those things that a good girl would never (and should never) ever want, he makes you think "hmm, maybe..."

A dangerous guy.

And so I can't help loving him to pieces because there's something deviant in me - and in you, I think, dear reader. It's something that makes you ponder: "hmmm, maybe..." as he makes his mysterious universe into your shameful temptation.

In my case, I was tempted enough to meet him, and vice versa it turned out. So here is my own recollection of coffee with Deity.

---------

It's a drab afternoon in the city, the sky full with bloated, dark clouds washing out the usual vibrancy into muted colors. The air feels slightly muffled and the city feels as resigned to its fate as I do.

The coffee shop is as he described it, long and narrow, and I spot him right away, though he said later that my glance around the cafe was in search of him. It wasn't. I recognized him immediately, but I have senses like a police officer (or perhaps a criminal?) at times -- my back usually positioned against a wall and quick exits established in advance. Eventually my eyes return to him and I take a deep breath and move to greet him.

Deity described me as awkward that day and I'm sure that's true. From the start I am at the disadvantages of his choosing, my back to the door and in unfamiliar territory. And I'm drinking tea which he's ordered for me, when I feel absolutely certain I should be sipping something like Glenlivet for this introduction. Hell, I should be gargling it.

But no. I'm here in this foreign coffee shop, his own personal lair. The tea is calming my chill but the caffeine threatens to escalate my nerves. We talk about nothing. It's charming, but evasive.

Deity's girl isn't available today, attending some grand event elsewhere. Deity is so very proud of her, both of who she is and her accomplishments. He tells me more about the things that make her amazing to him, and I agree, she is amazing. It relaxes me to talk about her. I am not here to get involved with her man, after all. Simply to meet a close friend I'd never met before.

But that doesn't mean there is no sexuality present at this table. For one thing, I suspect Deity would bring a D/s component into a brief conversational exchange with a 65 year old librarian grandmother, if he thought it would entertain him.

And so for this meeting of ours, he's especially focused.

He wants my attention and he confirms this for himself in small ways, by my obedience. I'm drinking the tea he ordered; I'm wearing the boots he advised me to buy long ago, knee-high with 4" heels that I've finally mastered; I'm fitted in a long, fashionable skirt that I knew he'd approve of; and I've abided some underwear 'suggestions'.

It's surprisingly embarrassing. To meet someone with whom you have no expectation of sex yet to still be their sexual toy. I could have been cheeky and not conformed to these preferences of his, but for what reason? He is dominant, I'm submissive. This dance is part of our natures, and he leads it.

Our conversation turns to less trivial things and the intimacy of it makes me nervous. I should leave, yet I'm feeling trapped here. It might not be sex, but I do feel a bit like I'm getting fucked. God, such a pleasant buzz it is...

And so I know I'd better leave, but when I come to that decision he seizes my wrist holding me in place.

Everything is quiet as I get my bearings. I slow my breathing, matching that buzz in my head to the calm, dark sky outside the cafe window. Everything feels serene yet threatening.

I'll let Deity finish the story in his words:

When i feel that you are ready, i lead you through a slow discussion of what you'd confessed to me online. I force you to talk explicitly about the things you want done to you. I demand that you speak at the same conversational level that we were previously. You are made to describe why you believe you deserve to be treated this way, why you have come to meet me at the cafe, and why you know this has to happen.

As each minute passes with you not taking your eyes from mine, i strip you of your vices. I remove you of your hangups. I peel away your vulnerabilities. At a certain point, you'll disappear.

At a certain point, you'll be gone.

Indeed, I was.

Who's the Boss?

My name is 'stormy', and I was invited by Deity to share a few words while he and his girl enjoy their yuletide journey. Fear not: he'll be back soon!


There are plenty of sexual things that 'feel' right to me that others would find bizarre: being sexually subservient, emotionally dependent, mixing pain & pleasure, and more. But my kinks are my own, not something for everyone, and so I tend to keep my desires private but for a few close friends.

But even among friends, I've still found there are triggers that create a backlash. Like the language of sexuality.

The honorifics of D/s are something many people take very seriously. When you talk to your dominant, is he 'Daddy'? 'Master'? Or can he be just a guy named 'Jack'?

Are we driven to use the names we choose because we truly feel them, or because we think we're supposed to? I've often wondered what other submissives and dominants think of this whole issue.

I could be wrong, but when I read sex blogs, my overwhelming feeling is that most submissives address their dom as 'Master' because they think they 'should', because it makes them more genuine in some way. And by extension, it seems like many doms believe they're only properly respected if they're referred to as such.

And it's not that there's anything wrong with that but I often wonder if these people genuinely feel their role, or if they're simply following some script to legitimize themselves.

'Master' in particular is a term I have mixed feelings about. I've been in several serious D/s relationships, yet none of the men I ever formed a profound connection with ever demanded a constant form of address. It wasn't protocol they wanted, nor empty words to define what they were to me. They knew they were dominant; what they were more concerned with was ensuring I knew it, too. Right down to my bones.

I do value language a great deal, the subtleties of meaning and respect, but 'Master' often feels so forced and artificial, I've seldom felt the genuine desire to use it. In my limited experience, doms who expected it (especially early in a relationship) seldom deserved it, while those who did deserve it felt no need to demand the title.

I realize I'm generalizing here, but these are just my own impressions.

On the other hand, a form of respect I do enjoy without it being demanded of me, is 'Daddy.' Yet I've know many other submissives who have a serious aversion to the word.

Ironically, I'm not particularly interested in men who consider themselves "daddy doms" either, and I have no interest in age-play. But despite that, 'Daddy' is often the first word on my lips with the type of man I connect with. The title represents authority with compassion and total trust. He nurtures, disciplines and corrects, and I do what I'm told both because I want to please him, and because I fear him to some extent. He is both protector and tormentor.

But ultimately, do names like Master, or Daddy or whatever... do any of them really matter?

I'm always curious how dominants and other submissives feel about the issue. Why is it important - or not - that we use these chosen names for our dominant partners? What does it represent for you... is it part of some unseen script, or something you honestly feel inside you?

On looking

The willowy limbs that bend in an array of gently formed angles as she makes her way down the avenue, clapping wooden taps into the pavement with gondolizing arches in her heels, makes me want to be right next to her, pressed, so that i can feel her vulnerability deliver her in separate pieces.

The curves of her body that hollow out the air as she juts through it, winding around her from unseen vertices, pilloring her neck, sliding in underneath her chanteuse arms, and compressing the silhouette of her torso into a silky, all-encompassing wave, continues down her telescopic thighs, lingering just beneath the balcony of her buttocks that offer a gracious tease of future sights and sorrows, all to end in portions that begin to dwindle from the firm extension of a flammable stem.

Her hands look like delicate music, singing a song with thin, smooth reeds. They enchant every surface they touch, leading the target into a tango that starts at her wrist, travels up through the tendons of her slender hand, bending into the samba of her fingertips. Her very, musical fingers.

Her face...ahhhhhh, her face. Buried in the deep, deep surface of the earth beneath our very feet lies great forces that twists and warp solid stone. They do not get it nearly as right as the forces that carved out her cameo. The canvass of her face begins at the crest of either, predominant cheek, which gives my eye the momentum to slide downward to her protruding feverish curl of flamboyant flesh that forms her very top lip. I linger here until i walk myself upwards to the pinnacle pleasure of her eyes of hidden treasure. A delicious brightness surrounds the caverns of her ocular home, holding the gleaming occupants in a state of utter shock, awe and amazement at their own singular beauty. The copper centers occupy their visual place perfectly, causing no alarm, but as an epiphany with every glance upon them. Lining each lid, a spray of black rays springs into the air, scooping my breath out of my lungs to feed the illumination that seems to take up residence on her unforgettable face.

Thankfully, looks are deceiving

I've been described as the following (as recently as within the past week):
GQ
Preppy, even geeky
Cute
Pretty
Harmless (jesus)


At one time or another, i've been told i look like one of the following, or in fact mistaken for them (seriously):
Tobey Maguire (someone thought i might be a stunt-double of his)
Robert Downey Jr. (on two separate occasions, i've been approached for his autograph)
Jake Gyllenhall
Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (they had to explain to me who he was)
Hugh Grant (both pre and post Hookergate)

My job is one where i am supposed to deal with working class stiffs (who honestly i look forward to dealing with), stodgy, government bureaucrats, and overpaid company executives. I must be somewhat presentable, amenable and likeable.

All of this put together in one package has crafted a huge hurdle to overcome whenever i'd revealed to a girl my darkest minustrations. They honestly wouldn't believe me at first. They thought i was pulling their leg when i would tell them that on the 2nd date i'd like to tie them up and then proceed to eat the very romantic, candle-lit dinner i'd prepared in front of them. I'm not complaining, per se. I'm actually quite fond that when i walk into a bank, the last thing on the teller's mind is that i might be the one most likely to ponder how to pull off a heist.

However, this contrast persists a lifelong bout of secrecy and cloaking of my true self. I suppose if i dressed all in leather, grew my hair out and studded my accessories, i'd be able to more outwardly express my inner polemic. But, as i recognize that too would not be me, i'm stuck with having to settle with revealing my realistic identity to a select and guarded few.