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.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
How much kink can you accomplish in the dark?
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.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Stripsleaze
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.
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.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sugasm #161
Sugasm #161
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
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Friday, March 20, 2009
The whole she-bang
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 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.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
In a pinch
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.
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.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
I remember them all
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
eau detour
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.
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.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The ultimate servant
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.
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.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Under my wing
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.
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.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Tapped
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.
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.
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