Tribal mentality

Over the years, i have witnessed many long term partnerships, commitments and marriages crumble. So many times, the explanations given for the dissolution of these relationships focus on money, ambition or political/cultural identities. I think this is hogwash. What we are talking about is a coupling, which at its root is a sexual pursuit. Either out of embarrassment or convention, we do not pinpoint sexual incompatibility when we cite the demise of a relationship. It was:

• We didn't see eye-to-eye on money issues
• He was too thrifty/she was too much of a shopaholic
• I couldn't see where he/she had a plan for their future
• Their position on reproductive rights troubled me

I'm not suggesting that these are not real or important matters, but in my experience, a great number of these issues had a sense of intractability due to the fact that they concealed deeply flawed sexual alignment. For each story about how this person's endless and frivolous online purchases exasperated the other, i've witnessed the self-medicating, cosmetic purpose of these shopping sprees - to cover up the fact that their root, physical needs weren't being met (and perhaps even being shamed by their partner). The reasons for this have become increasingly clearer over the years.

Sex is how we intimately connect.

And I don't just mean how we connect with our sexual partners.  For the extent of my life, I've felt like an outcast. I have a healthy amount of friends, those i'd call my social compadres. All but a very small number know about this site. I have been faced with concealing this side of me to mostly everyone i know. And yet, i have been incredibly blessed to meet people with whom i'm able to share this partition of myself like i share with those of you who visit. Initially, we chatted about our respective engagement in the SM world, and then...our conversations resumed a normal, conventional discourse. In fact, to anyone who observes our interactions from the outside, the conversations we have are incredibly (and perhaps, boringly) normal. However, these people represent the folks with whom i get to be my most authentic self. I get to be my dominant self - no question - but i also get to be my challenged, struggling, uncertain and questioning self in ways that are liberating.

There's a lot of cosmetic manipulation that can make a life pursuing this kind of sexuality sound glamorous and profound, but if we never find those who make up our tribe, it never feels real.

Closing up shop

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.

Alone again, naturally

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...

A complete dick

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.

In reflection

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.

Paix resistance

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?

The Universe will have its way

"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.

Save your self

Everybody wants a savior. We all want some divine presence who can snap us up from the madness of others, and the madness of a world we don't really understand. I've wanted salvation myself, for as long as i can remember. I've wanted the invisible hands to come into my life and push me out of the way of the speeding vehicle, or to nudge me forward when my courage has bled through my heels. The longer i await the arrival of this entity to set the sands of my conviction firm, the stronger my hunger becomes for it.

I know that most of what i pursue in my relationship with the female creature is an attempt to act as the great liberator they seek. My audacity to believe i could occupy such a role, to be able to shine a light on a path that leads to their ultimate self-awareness has driven my need to continue my own search. From a very early period, i deified my likeness, both mocking the idea that i might be a god but also hoping to approximate one. I make proclamations, orders with little reflection and a great deal of expectation that they are followed. Who am i to believe that i know the correct manner circumstances should occur? Something inside of me indicates that my actions, my will, my beliefs all have a lead. Everyone has an Alpha. A beginning. A moment greater than themselves. I am constantly seeking that moment, that singularity.

Everybody wants a savior. Everybody wants to believe they are valuable enough to see a hand stretched out at them - even if there is a whip dangling from it.

de ma femme

I've been milling the decision about on how i can get my girl's perspective onto these pages for nearly the entire existence of "The Lustful Quality". Recently, the light bulb illuminated in my head.

"Eureka! I'll give her a writing assignment!"

(Not another assignment - Good God, man, aren't you hard enough on her?)

I know what i think and feel (mostly) when i mummify her. I wanted her to write out how she reacts to it. This will be her first writing assignment for this site. There might be more, there might not be. Rather than her crafting directly onto transformher, for now i'll re-post her writing*. That way i can keep her...

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Under Wraps

Usually the way I know it’s going to happen is because he tells me. As his girl, I wait for his cue, and he’s not shy about giving it. I’ve been mummified a few different ways — sometimes it’s a layer of cling wrap followed by a layer of duct tape, other times it’s gauze bandages — but every time, the medium is his choice. Part of the excitement for me is that I am but a pawn in his game, the base for his sculpture. Were it not for the relationship between us, I might as well be just another girl from a classified ad, but the fact that I’m not changes the nature of the scene.

Cling wrap is typically used in the winter, when it’s already generally cool in the house, but even then we usually have to turn a fan. He often uses the green cling wrap, since it’s one of my favorite colors, but sticks to the plain gray or black duct tape when a more industrial look is preferred. On other occasions, he might not use duct tape at all, and just leave it at green shrink wrap. When the gauze is used by itself, my skin can breathe, and my body becomes a rainbow of bandages. Sometimes my mouth and nose are kept free for breathing (and other things), other times I breathe through a tube. As with everything else, it’s ultimately his choice. When I am his mummy, I am his creation.

For me, this is entirely freeing. I love sleeping, so being forced to remain in one position for a long time and turn my mind inside of itself is both a treat and a relief. At the start of the session there is almost always a period where it takes some time for me to adjust to the fact that I am powerless, but eventually it comes to me that I’m actually powerless all the time. When mummified, I can do nothing but breathe, which is the very least I need to do to survive no matter what the case. The gradual acceptance that so little of my life is in my control is ultimately liberating, although frightening at first. Once I reach that point, my test is one of endurance. How long can I sustain having my legs bent backwards, my arms forced into a reverse prayer? How long can I go without being able to take deep breaths as I please?

Part of my responsibility as the mummified object is to let him know my limits. Boundaries being what they are, sometimes I don’t know where the line is until it is crossed, and that’s another facet of our play together. Throughout a session, he talks to me, checks in on me, and I can indicate my status with grunts that tell him whether I am okay or in need of release. Moreover, my head is usually one of the last things to be wrapped, and so while my body is contorted he asks me how long I think I can last in this position and works from there. This part is really important to me. I may be his subject, his work of art or even his victim, but at the end of the line my needs come first. Similarly, his needs are defined once I’ve named mine, which for my part are determined with his satisfaction in mind. If this sounds confusing, I don’t blame you. Where the wants and needs of two people are in constant flux and communication, that is where you will find the rarest of things--a true partnership of trust. For me, mummification is an expression of this trust, and I hope it is as positive and relaxing for everyone else as it is for me and my man.

*If you'd like to leave a comment for her, please do so. She reads these pages and the comments and loves feedback.

Revealer

I traveled with my girl over last weekend, leaving the city to celebrate a chum's birthday with a few hundred of his friends and relatives. The interesting thing about this gentleman, as is the case with a good number of relationships in my life, is that there is no rational reason for why we have such strong camaraderie. We are polar opposites. He is the East coast to my Western Mountain boy. But, somehow, we get along incredibly well. Most of the time we spend in eachother's company occurs one on one or with our respective partners. On the occasions that either of us have a gathering that involves our autonomous and separate collection of friends, an invitation will get extended to the other. Should the person accept the invite, they will come into a situation where they are surrounded by people they don't know, and largely cannot relate to. Such is the case this past weekend.

My girl, dressed in her newest vintage red polka-dot halter dress, and i arrived at the party and realized we did not know a solitary soul, minus the birthday boy (and his wife). We mingled. We chit-chatted. We jabbed. All of it completely meaningless. Anyone could've played my head-nodding part in the conversations i partook because the subjects never rose above the level of small talk. An hour passed, and i found myself exhausted (from the effort it took for me to show i cared about the stress this person experienced from maintaining his second home in the Berkshires) , and completely disinterested in pursuing any vein of dialogue. Only until the last guests left, and i had exquisite solitude with my host, did i find my spirits fueled and firing.

On the ride back into the city, i gave this much reflection. Was it snobbery on my part? Was it elitism? I didn't think so. I've had conversations with complete strangers on the subway that washed my soul with warmth. The solitary unifier amongst all of my most profound relationships is my ability to find a comfort at revealing and living out some aspect of myself. If i am clammed up, disconnected from myself, or conceal my basic properties, i grow numb to the exchange.

This principle comes shining through in my interactions with my friend K. When we gather, i will note the commencement of our appointment, and then four hours later, i will again glance at my watch as perplexion overcomes me at the expanse of time. We converse on so many subjects (most recently his purchase of a leather hood for his girl) that draw out of me a ribbon of stimulation for me to constantly chew on, i find i lose my perception of passing time. In fact, when you establish a profound connection with someone, when you reveal and offer yourself, you momentarily slip out of the gulf stream of time. In that instant, you feel connected to the universe.

That's what "The Lustful Quality" accomplishes for me. At any moment, when i face a vapid suction of beauty that this world so frequently presents, i gain comfort in knowing, that coming here, i can allow the mechanisms that i've formed inside of me to affect my civilized reaction to the ugliness a reprieve. Instead, i'm able to express myself while tuning into the harmony that runs through all of us (and that is so frequently distorted and overshadowed by all the noise our psyches endure).

We all, at the end of our line, want to feel connected. The sensation of connectedness gives us value, like we serve a purpose in all of this screaming, dryer-tumbling chaos. Like our life isn't just a meaningless passage of time. No one, after all, wants to feel meaningless.

En vacance

Ahhhhhhh...

I can feel the relaxation already. I'm stretching my limbs up towards the cloudless, crystal blue sky. I'm carefully cleaning the gunk from my sunglasses. I'm rummaging through my untouched stack of literature, looking for the one or two reads whose leaves will be easy to thumb through as my attention gets drawn out to the rolling surf bubbling up over my sandaled toes.

I'm leaving for the next two and a half weeks, and won't have any access to these pages until i return. But don't worry, my dignified readers.

Stormy, my beautiful and eloquent amie de coeur, has gallantly offered her gracious tutelage over this site in my absence. I look forward to the path Her Erotic Demise will take under her steady and (often) playful guidance.

So, without much regret, i depart. Enjoy the broadcast of TransformHer under different management. I know i will.

Wrapped up in herself

She'd had a particularly horrendous week. Her job had become a rather stressful environment as the rumor of multiple layoffs built steam - a job, it should be noted that she only works to pay the bills while she spends her free time pursuing multiple projects that fulfill her advanced degree and training. She'd also just endured this, not to mention that we had an upcoming visit to the corsetier, which is never a completely enjoyable event for her.

All of this fell upon us as we were walking back home from an engagement. It heralded in a much needed weekend, which led us to discuss what we might do with our "ample" leisure time. We individually keep our own calendars, taking great care in synchronizing them as our lives are robustly spent in multiple theaters, and both of us had set aside time for yet another quartet with my friend K and his girl. I hadn't heard from K all week, which led me to believe that our night of sundry behavior was not to occur. Taking this into account, i measured my own mental faculties and recognized i needed a replacement, some form of play that would satisfy my appetites. I weighed this against the kind of week my girl had tolerated, and then created a program in my head that addressed both our needs.

Realizing we had no obligations or appointments, she asked what i wanted to do with our now open and free evening. I told her i had a plan. In her agitated and overrun state of mind, this chafed her, which i could detect as well as anticipate.

"I have a vision for what i'd like to do."

She breathed a heavy sigh,"Baby, i don't think i can do anything too strenuous. Not with the week i've had. I don't think i could handle any serious spanking or flogging."

"I know. If you can believe it, i'd actually assumed you'd be stressed. But, you needn't worry. What i have in mind will be very calming. Trust me."

Those two words - 'trust' and ' me' - signaled to her my overall reflection on her emotional state. All negotiations ceased, she could tell i had the situation well in hand. Once we returned home, she slipped into the resigned state of a vessel that would allow my empathetic guidance to overcome her.

A while back, i had ordered a large amount of items that would permit a serious session of mummification. I know how my girl reacts to this method of entombment, and felt it a perfect fit for her current state of chaos and flagrant uncertainty. Upon entrance into our home, i told her to find a comfortable seat as i readied the implements of her next status. I laid out a dozen roles of 3M athletic wrap, a pair of surgical safety scissors, and her Hitachi wand. I then summoned her to the bedroom.

I asked her to remove her robing, positioning her at the foot of the cast-iron bedframe. I took a roll of the colorful permeable wrap, and wound it around her upper torso, followed by her neck, then fully encased her entire head. I then turned to a different color of the flexible dressing, and bound her arms to her mid-section, encasing the rest of her body in tight constriction. I then grabbed the Hitachi, positioned it with the business end right at her sensitive floral parts, and secured this with more 3M tape.

I then stationed her in the bed for her long-term internment. I grabbed the camera and started taking pictures.





































































Admittedly, i had a specific color scheme in mind (some of you may try to guess what that "inspiration" was). I examined her to make sure all of her vital functions could continue and then left her resting there in her tight fortressed cocoon. Checking on her periodically where i would fiddle with her exposed tits - tugging on her nipple rings and rubbing the soft skin of her bosom - and flick on the slumbering vibrator strapped to her cunt, i returned to release her after almost an hour of encasing. After this amount of time, she receded in my mind into an absolute object, one in which i unabashedly play with to satisfy my urges of manipulation and control. She was no longer the girl i converse with about our daily meanderings, but instead, she assumed the form of my full throttle sadistic design.

Once she emerged from these layers, she faced the world as one who had found a comforting center. Here, she was allowed to occupy a persona that sloughs off the hardships of her everyday life. No matter how many times i repeat this ritual, i welcome this rebirth. I thrill at the evidence of this renaissance, knowing that we will continue on to face whatever mediocrity all of us must encounter in this austere hardship we call life.

It's in his eyes

At first, it's just a glance. Something my senses are quite attuned to, but still, since it has only met my eyes once, i don't take notice. Then, she'll begin to stare. Smile nervously. And then her stare will turn hungry. She'll want me to stare back. I'll cross the flight path of her gaze with my own eyes, and i'll know instantly that i've caught her. I haven't captured her in a momentary transaction. I mean, i've caught her, trapped her, she's mine.

This visual tractor beam is in fact so common i've come to refer to it in my head as an echo. I stand on the edge of the massive canyon, only to call out my voice in hopes of hearing the familiar return to my ears. It might come across as slightly shocking that i would place on these pages dictation that states how time after time i've entered into a deep connection with multiple females. But, what i believe to be more shocking is that it has happened with females of all ages. Be they 25 years my junior or senior. This is what makes this subject so difficult to write about on this site. I'm not talking about this capture in an explicitly sexual manner, but something similar to catching a beautiful monarch butterfly. I retrieve the creature from my net, pull it gently out and hold it on my fingers, lightly caressing its gossamer elegance, letting it flutter a 4-line poem with its fragile wings.

Perhaps this is why i've always had more female companions in my life. Perhaps this explains why even today my profession, my daily vocation and even my volunteer work finds me in situations where my gender is the minority. And perhaps, herein lies the veracity for the overwhelming number of comments to my words here coming from the fairer sex.

Most frequently, this connection would happen in social situations, usually at a party or gathering. Now, if she was younger than me, she was usually the younger sister of a friend, or the daughter of the host. Her attachment would be made instantaneously. She would not say much to me, keeping herself just off of my periphery where (she most likely didn't know i knew) she would be able to stare at me rather uninterruptedly. Then, she would grow bold, show me, with great pride, a toy of hers - a favorite doll, perhaps - to see if i would be able to speak on her level. I would normally wink at her, raise my eyebrows, make a silly little face. My young friend sometimes pretends to be demure to my sudden return volley of attention, pin her chin to her shoulder, smear her hands over her face, only to offer me her eyes to signify her amusement.

What strikes me most times when i am in this situation, other than the pure innocent joy of this exchange, is what is staring from behind those eyes of hers. I feel like i know them. Like sixty years earlier, they belonged to someone in my past life who meant something very dear to me, and for a moment, i'm enjoying the opportunity of their brief visit.

The strongest episode of this kind happened when i was just graduating from college. My hometown friend had invited me to come down and watch his younger brother play baseball for his highschool team. This junior second baseman had a female friend named Cindy who was to accompany us. When my friend told me of this, before i even met her i felt a strange connection, despite the fact that she was only 15 and i was 23. I rode down with my friend in his car, jumping in the back seat so when we got his brother, they could share the front together. However, being a gentleman, upon arrival, lil bro let Cindy sit in the front.

I'm really not able to explain why it felt like it did when she entered the car, but upon her recline, an incredible peace overwhelmed me. My friend introduced me to her, and the entire time, she didn't look back at me. For twenty minutes, we engaged in conversation amongst the four of us, and not once did she turn back to deliver her words directly. Then, abruptly, she spun around and looked right into my eyes. I still remember this moment: her deep, shiny brown morsels surrounded by the whites of her optics; her graduating cascade of arched eyelashes; the brightness of the entire area between her temples. Suddenly, decades of a life i couldn't recall came to me, in a different locale, region and time period. She'd brought these memories back to me. I could tell she was equally stunned. We interrupted the flow of conversation and spoke the only words that made sense:

"Hi," she said. She'd pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth, nibbling on it.

"Hi there," i responded. We were reacquainting ourselves with eachother. She was looking in my eyes (and couldn't stop) as if it had been too long since she last saw them.

A year would pass, and she and i would no longer be able to hold back, engaging in a passionate romance that due to our age gap would never get the proper oxygen it needed to adequately fuel the flame. But it was enough to really witness the memories and experiences you can share with someone not from this current lifetime.

With regards to females older than me, this phenomenon takes on a rather similar shine - a connection realized from some shared past. Due to our stages in life, the situation tends to allow more flirtation. The most recent episode of this happened over the weekend. I was at my friend's engagement party, whose mom i'd met several times. We shared this connection i mention above, however it took a very subtle and dignified tone.

I was sitting at a table by myself on the outside patio, taking in the beauty of the nighttime air and symphony of nature's song. I heard the sounds of heels come click along the stone of the patio behind me, and then the gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

I could tell it was her by her voice, but also by her leathery perfume. I smiled, indicating i was doing wonderful.

She walked around the table and stood in front of me with a smile that always calms and excites me. She looked at me for the first time in the evening, and cocked her head slightly to the side.

"Your eyes are so bright. Did you lighten your eyes?"

I smiled again, big, showing all of my teeth. I let her walk away to attend to other guests, waiting until she was just on the verge of being out of earshot, and then i spoke:

"Yes. But, just so i could seduce you."

Pacificity

Where does this passion come from?

Who can i thank for my unending lust?

Who can i curse for my obsession?

Who lights this spark in me, igniting a fire that searches out fuel that can only come from the struggle of a female?

What am i seeking?

Am i running with mighty haste from, or to something?

I've often spoke of darkness, and i hear others refer to darkness inside them when they approach or marvel in their kink, but what really grows out of me as i touch the different manifolds of my sexuality is light. She is the filament, i am the current flowing through her, from which we illuminate dark, uncovered corners. She is the stone, i am the flint that strikes against her surface, shooting sparkling embers into the air, igniting the match head to produce a seedling flame.

However, I do not believe this is just sexuality or even the pure act of procreation. I struggle to define what exactly operates inside my own psyche, but i know i seek more than just a receptacle for my seed. I always have. As a young boy who lurched clumsily along my pocked field of puberty, the fantasies that brought me to my quick climaxes never consisted of me "getting with the girl". They always (and still do) consisted of me "possessing" her. In fact, when we consider biology, any chalice would serve science's purposes. I could find a random female, and as long as i have ejaculated enough semen into her that finds purchase in her womb, my genitals have suceeded galantly.

No, this is much more than simply extroverted petri dishes. How strange it must sound to the outside observer, to my friends who have no idea why i keep a lock and key on a particular door in my residence, that i find peace in such barbarism. I live in a place where "liberal" is a redundancy when assigned to someone's political views, and so i exist in a world where the protocol i enforce in my house would be labeled (has been labeled unknowingly) as sexist, Third World, fundamentalist and archaic. I can imagine the full volume debates with these people who have eaten off of my china, dined in my parlor, commemorated great events and notable celebrations for me, when they hear my supposition that i torment, bind, batter and chastise my girl in order to find peace.

Pacificity. How absurd and contradictory. One cannot live by the hard line order of their lover's regular corporal punishment and also assert that they derive peace from this, can they? One cannot enforce a stringent dress code that abides by social and cultural gender stereotypes, and claim that doing so delivers them to a near Nirvana state, can they? One cannot feel a drive to strip their loved one of their human identity, relegating them to the status of an immobile object, all the while experiencing a picturesque sampling of inner sanctum - or can they? I will not lay metaphysical claim that what i seek, constantly allowing a divining rod to guide me to a source, is the same transcendental mastery those ascetics burrowed deep into monasteries pursue. But i know the purpose for my incendiary is more than just sexual apex.

To go back to my very first post, i wonder what part of the Big Bang's matter seared itself to my cellular structure. To who am i dependent upon for my life and the manner in which i carry it out? I ask rhetorically for an explanation of my inner chemistry, half dangling my toe into the bathtub of knowledge to test its scalding temperature, while also looking to skip the cleanse altogether, concluding it is better not to know.