And yet i cannot turn away

I've frequently travelled for work, which leads to me spending many a night in a hotel room, far away from home. In past times when i was younger, i found other means of satisfaction that my unattached and single status permitted. In the most recent years, when not indulging in illicit phone calls with my homebound girl, i've turned to the now abundantly prevalent high-speed Internet connection most hotels offer. I'm not sure what came first, the DSL or the hyperactive sexual appetites, but i find myself overcome with incredible horniness once i drop my attache on the floor and eye the broadband device stationed on the end of my desk for the night.

I don't know how i would've managed to satisfy these cravings in an age when endless arteries of erotic pulsation weren't made available to my fingertips by Ma and Pa Up-fer-thu-nyte. In fact, i think it is safe to say that the Internet itself has facilitated an intense exploration of my sexuality in so many public and private venues that imagining where i would be with my libidinous development without it seems impossible. I have catalogued many real-life experiences that inform who i am today, but i would be remiss if i didn't also acknowledge the significant contribution this global network of kinky provisions has made to my overall dominant, fetishistic self.

As a result of the ample supply of caboodle, i've amassed an immense collection of links, portals, libraries and warehouses that can be easily accessed through this Internet connection should an insistent hankering arise (which it always does). I could easily end this post like that, by just offering that i'll always be able to quickly satisfy any cravings i have, but I would demonstrate great irresponsibility if i didn't address the negative side to this unfettered access to the world wide web . While i could call up in a matter of seconds intense mummification scenes, galleries of corsets, damsels gagged and suspended, this has not come without a cost. To get to this point has taken a certainly unhealthy obsession on my part, where i've culled through reams of material which as a result has exposed me to entirely unappetizing images and scenarios.

Because i've opened up a dialogue with sites and venues that offer any and every fetish, my eyes have feasted on some incredibly raunchy material. Some of the stuff i've seen has dipped to such depravity, that i begin to wonder both about my own sanity but also the end result for those who seek this extreme filth. I realize i introduce the topic of de-sensitization when i criticize those who parade such seriously decrepit fetishes, but i can't help but feel that i straddle a fairly reasonable and sensible line (no matter how demanding my dress code becomes). The lewdness and despicable character some of these sites demonstrate on face value is enough to call in to question the overall benefits of an endless stream of cyber information. An inability to identify the source, the subjects being portrayed and their overall context underlies the debauchery of the stomach-turning expositions i've seen. Let us not even try to extract the legality or the ethics of the organization behind it.

Let's be honest, most horny men don't give a crap about the source (i admit, even i occasionally fall into this category), nor do they care about the context of the clip itself. It has been pointed out to me several times that we as a (male) gender have such a raw approach to porn that we can be blinded to the hurt, the suffering and the desperation of the subject that helps us get our rocks off. While i'm stuffed away in an isolated hotel suite, with an ample supply of tissues, these things are not on the forefront of my mind. What arouses me could have as little grounding material as possible, and it would still serve to excite if i'm in the right mood. Of course, as i think about this in the light of day and under a moral magnifying glass, guilt seeps into every pore. To assuage this guilt, i am quite overly critical of the material i do encounter, especially those that feature a dominant male in them, as opposed to the girl, alone, on her own, enduring her ordeal. I almost don't want to ever see the dominant. I'd rather not contend with this anonymous figure. I'd rather not critique his poor choice of fashion and style, and i would most rather not like to focus on his sloppy handling of the girl now entombed.

Instead, i'd rather obsessively stare at this vision, suspended in time and in image, struggling for the moment to breathe yet stay still and to represent the perfectly static beauty my soul really longs for in those moments of complete solitude.