A XXXmas tale from ole Deity

When ole Deity was little, he absolutely loved Christmas. He would lay under the tree in the living room and just stare up through all the twinkly lights, the shiny ornaments and the velvet green pine needles all night long. He loved the Christmas songs that came out of this electronic sound box his parents had bought that synced the twinkle of the lights to sharp-pitched tones. He loved how this was the only room in the entire house he could lay and feel alone, but not in solitude. He loved that not far away he could hear the plates and glasses from dinner being cleaned and put into the dishwasher, and even further in the distance, the blurry vocal static of the television that his dad was watching. Not even his lovable orange tomcat came and broke his sanctuary. Hours and hours were spent underneath that tree, all in anticipation for the morning of Christmas day.

Now, you might think that the little boy was excited about the presents that he would be opening once Christmas arrived, but that was not what was going through his head. Every year, before the presents were opened, his family held a little ceremony where the little baby Jesus figurine was put into the handmade Nativity scene that sprawled all over the coffee table. Nothing could happen before this took place - no presents, no hot cocoa, no cinnamon rolls, no carols - NOTHING. The honor of placing the baby Jesus into the manger had always fallen to the little boy, and he considered it magical - he was the one who started Christmas.

One year, a few days before Christmas, the little boy's mother informed him that they were having to make a slight change to the way things worked on Christmas morning. She told him that his older sister had asked if she could place the baby Jesus in the manger this year, and his mother thought that it made sense to share the duties. The little boy didn't think it made sense at all. He erupted, screaming, hollering and tossing about the entire room. This response took his mother by complete surprise, and she saw that she needed to come up with a solution quickly. She told the little boy that he could carry the candle into the room that was used to light all the other candles around the manger - something his mother told him also needed to happen in order for Christmas to start. Until now, that role had been one of his parents, an adult role, and she thought he was a big enough boy to handle that important responsibility. The boy quieted down and accepted the role, but only after his mother told him that next year he'd get to be the one to place the baby Jesus (they'd alternate years).

So, on that morning, he stood in the hallway with his sister. He watched as she opened her hands, and his mother placed the beautiful figurine in her out-stretched palms. He then watched as she bent down and carefully lit the white candle he gripped tightly. His sister turned and began walking into the living room, and he followed, making sure to step carefully so that the flame didn't get blown away by his movement. He kept one eye on the bright fiery light and one on his sister as she stopped in front of the manger. And just as she bent down to gingerly place the porcelain child into his cradle...

...the little boy lifted the candle to the back of her head, and lit her hair on fire.

Multi-tasking

The thing that interests me the most about cooking is the chemistry involved. You can take an egg (a liquid) and apply heat to it, and it changes into a solid (an omelet). Because I'm able to understand these phase changes, I'm actually a very gifted cook. I can read a recipe once, understand the basic methodology the various chemical/physical reactions it's intending to create, and improvise. I'm able to open my fridge, scan the leftovers, jars and vegetables, and compile a quick meal that exceeds most courses on offer at higher end restaurants. I'm not saying this from my point of view. I'm saying it from the point of view of the countless dozens of people who have been the recipient of my cooking. They cannot help themselves but offer their joy and delight upon immediately tasting the cuisine in front of them. All it takes to make a good dinner is concentration and clarity.

So then, why would I fuck with this combination by putting my girl into a predicament bondage tie while I'm in the middle of preparing the main course for an upcoming dinner party?

It had been awhile since she and I had played, and we had both been able to take off some extended time from our jobs during the holidays. This left us with more leisure time than we're used to having. I was going to the Italian market that morning, to get the essential ingredients for the sauce I'd be serving for dinner. As I was leaving, my girl came to me and expressed her interest in being tied up at some point that day - and who would turn that down? I told her I would be able to work it in once I started cooking.

The afternoon arrived, and I led her to the bedroom. On the bed, I had already laid out four 7-meter lengths of hemp rope, her latex-strapped wand/vibe harness, and her baby pink latex hood from Kink Engineering. I quickly bound her arms at her elbows, then anchored these to her torso, encircling her tits, until all bits were well wrapped and squeezed. I moved to her left leg, and affixing her wrists to her ankles, bound up her leg so that it was pointing up towards the ceiling. I repeated this same arrangement on her right side, threaded the rope through the outer bars of her bed, which forced her thighs up and outward. She would not be closing those for the entire time she was bound. I buckled her Hitachi into the harness wound around her crotch, and rest it between her legs. The head of the wand rested firmly against her naked, anticipating cunt. The last thing I did was to pull the snug, pink latex hood over her head, ensuring the micro-cut nose holes were in the right spot on her face.
And then I left.

I wandered into the kitchen, set the timer on the oven for 8 minutes, and began preparing the ingredients for my tomato sauce. When the timer went off, I quietly entered the bedroom. I began to inspect the rope, to make sure her circulation remained vibrant. I checked to make sure her breathing in the hood wasn't too obstructed. Kissed her delicately on the shiny, pink forehead, then flicked the switch on the Hitachi to 'low', and exited the bedroom.

Setting the kitchen timer to 10 minutes, I returned to my task, sautéing the ingredients I had prepared. The scent of the aromatics in the pan finally burst into the air right as the timer went off.

Once again, I penetrated the quiet bedroom, but this time, I was met with the constant hum of the Hitachi, and the seductive myews of a girl slowly reducing into a sexual collapse. Immediately, I turned the wand off. I methodically checked the rope and her breathing, and saw that she could easily remain for a good time more. I began to walk myself back to the kitchen, but before I left the room, I felt the rhythmic throb of my erect cock tenting out my slacks. In fact, once I took a moment to notice, my entire demeanor had altered, and a hunger to torment smeared itself all over my face. I reached into the nightstand and pulled out my black, latex cock sheath, lubed up my pulsing member, and slid it into the sheath.

I went back to the kitchen to attend to the sauce cooking on the stove. Set the kitchen timer for 8 minutes, and tried as much as possible to not think about the bound, naked, writhing frame lying on my bed.

Over the course of 45 minutes, I would repeat the cycle of wand on/wand off, eventually building the crescendo of not being able to stop myself from sampling the pool of erotic energy that once was my girl.

Incidentally, the sauce turned out amazing. Our dinner guests couldn't stop praising its richness and vitality.

Scene it all

As you make your way through your own sexual discovery, you tend to spend the initial stages of this exploration within your mind. It's not common that you share this embryonic experience with others. Not yet. You play with the new sensations in your head. Flexing the new connections between stronger, fortified and maturing muscles. When you are ready (or more likely when you aren't), suddenly presented with a partner (or partners), you venture into an experimental stage with others. It's from this point where you forge deep, intimate connections with these individuals who share similar appetites as yours, each of you uncovering new forms of expression that broaden a nascent language of the skin and senses. If you are blessed, you look around this new world, and see similar souls, each seeking the same sexual sustenance - synchronicity, symbiosis, singularity.

But what happens if you are not fortunate enough to find those "others"? What happens if you discover that your sexual desires do not match the oft-repeated examples from society and culture around you? Do you start to doubt the authenticity of your needs and hungers? Do you embark on a long voyage of self-betrayal, doubt and denial?

It's been nearly 20 years since I saw my first fetish images from the unsanctioned use of an Internet-enabled computer I was stationed at for a mindless temp job (back then, "Internet-enabled" was in fact a very common thing). What I felt as I clicked through a seemingly endless assortment of grainy images of women clad - head-to-toe - in shiny rubber was a pulse that throbbed in me unlike anything else up to this point. It triggered alive some sort of contraption in my body that sought a source of fuel and energy not easily found, and more importantly, one that my then-current environment labeled as perverted, wrong and unacceptable. I was forced to take my sexuality deep underground.

This subterfuge led me to relocate to a different city, a much larger one, with the promise that I'd find other like-minded souls operating in a world where I could satisfy and explore this erotic currency much more freely. Since my emigration, there have been many unconnected experiences that have fulfilled, but even today, I cannot ignore my deep dissatisfaction with "the scene". As recently as this past Halloween, my girl and I went to the self-proclaimed "Premiere Fetish Play Party" in Gotham, only to be incredibly let down at how enormously disorganized and scattered this world was. I won't go into detail about what we encountered, only to say that if this is the preeminent celebration of kink in this metropolis, fetish is unattractive, sociopathic and rude. After an evening of extreme letdowns, I had to come to grips with the fact that in this massively chaotic and unbridled city, you still are not able to find the environment that permits you to foster the deep kind of intimacy you'd think a playground of this size would allow.

I wonder if those of you reading this have found similar disappointments. I invite you to share your experiences in the comments to this post. I'd really love to hear your successes and your misfortunes. Perhaps here on these pages, we can have a dialog over what sort of landscape we'd hope to find. Perhaps, we can find ways to not feel totally isolated and alone.

Risk taken

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Patron

One of my favorite operas of all time is Mozart's 'Don Giovanni'. There are many parts of the opera that repeatedly pop up in my mind. However, the frustrated aria sung by Masetto sticks in my head more than the others. In "Ho Capito, signor, si", Masetto is expressing his resentment at Don Giovanni for pushing him out of the scene, but knows there is nothing he can do. Why? Because Don Giovanni is his boss.

We all have them, in some form. Odds are we all have one at our place of employment, telling us what to do and what rules to follow. Sometimes, we really enjoy their placement above us in the food chain - because they provide shelter, stability and guidance. Other times, like for poor Masetto, they are overbearing and unruly. (And for the record, I don't do well with reporting to someone, and have largely avoided this power structure in my professional career as a result)

However, when you really analyze it, we have installed bosses throughout our lives. Most of us wake up to an alarm clock. This electronic patron informs us that it is time to get out of our comfortable beds and start our days. Some of us have relied on applications installed on our phones that alert us of our next appointment, tell us when to head to the airport, or even which medication we should take that day. We rely on physical journals to mark down our daily caloric intake so that we can take control of our weight. And, who hasn't hired a personal trainer or attended a class at a gym run by one because we know we wouldn't do the hard work otherwise if this physically fit person wasn't barking at us to keep going?

All of these things assume a hierarchy over our lives, if we let them. But, here is the key "if we let them." That alarm clock has a snooze button. Those phone apps can be silenced. We can "misplace" our food journals. And we can also choose to not go to the gym. We have to want to be led.

One way we can get to that point of submitting to a boss is to understand the full spectrum of what they do for us. Certainly, they help us get to a goal (Be on time; Lose weight; Stay on track). But, just as significant, they also shape us, reform us, and contain us.

It's that last one that works so much for those who lean toward the submissive side of this power exchange. Many of us thrive when we are contained. Many of us feel liberated only after we have been shackled. We do not have to worry about appearing to lead, but dutifully, passionately follow and carry out commands.

I was recently away from home on business for a time longer than I could remember. Once I came home, my girl started listing all of the times she felt frustrated, uncertain and unsafe (this wasn't immediate - she relished the first 24 hours I was away). She came to a conclusion that once spoken gave me such a rush:

"I really think I need a boss in my life."

Signora, si. 

les cheveux

I was shelving old anthologies of ragtime sheet music, when i first caught glimpse of her. In this tony and bland music library, her appearance clashed with the surroundings like a single golden leaf on an otherwise empty sidewalk. As quick as i could, i abruptly slammed the dusty collections in my hands to the floor and bolted into the aisle, only to see her turn the corner towards the exit. I conjured up some reason why i needed to run outside, tossing it at my manager as i sped by. Once outside on the street, i scanned the horizons to my left and right, finally seeing her 50 feet up the pathway towards the Arts and Sciences campus. I instantly took up the pursuit.

As i made up ground between us, i tried to think of what i'd say to spark a conversation:

"You dropped this..." - but i wouldn't have anything that she'd dropped
"Hi. I noticed you were in the traditional music section. I happen to be an expert in the field, and thought i'd offer you my assistance." - too trite and a bit on the creepy side
"Pardon me. But i saw you in the library, and just knew i had to say hello or regret it for a very long time." - much better, but still too wordy
"Excuse me. I just saw you in the library, i felt compelled to tell you how beautiful your hair is."

I hadn't actually seen her face, or even much of her figure as she passed me in the library stacks. What caught my eye - what always catches my eye - was her hair. Her rich chestnut locks cascaded all the way to the lower mid part of her back, with several pieces pulled over her face and shoulders. It responded to her body's turns with reciprocal flips and sashays. And every single locomotive quality enticed me. The deep dark color, however, pushed into my gut, awakening a hunger. I instantly imagined my nose sifting through it, pummeled by the perfume of her shampoo and natural oils from her scalp. I felt it curled around my fingers, as i raked through its abundance, the silk strong and tender.

Just as i reached her, she flipped her hair over her ear with her right hand, stroking the torture of her beautiful appearance. We ended up having a wonderful conversation that day. I won't say for how long, or whether it ever ended. But i will say, all these years, she's never cut her gorgeous hair.

Tunnel vision

Immediately, I feel the need to react.

There are few things like this in my life. I can pause my growing hunger for very long periods. I can perform throughout my day on very little sleep from the night before. I can run past the point of my fatigue.

But when faced with my girl taking that first step into the unfairly tilted game I've set up for her that evening, I am completely arrested on the spot and unable to ignore it.

We both love puzzles. We love the idea of tackling a challenge. But, these types of games cannot be put down, and casually picked up later. They demand an immediate solution.

I cannot see anything but her struggle. I cannot smell anything but the sweet poison of her warming sexual arousal. I hear only the whimpers and groans. Soon, my uncommonly strong restraint disappears, and my only choice is to react.

Only then do these blinders lift.

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.

Ankles

Can you deny the fact that ankles are so prominently overlooked?

When was the last time you spent the good part of your day staring at the panoply of these gorgeous yet differently-shaped podiatric joints?

I whimsically pretend not to gaze at the small, faeric, fleshy pistons that populate the city sidewalks and bus chassis and waiting rooms and subway platforms during the warm, smarmy months of summer. I'm supposed to, instead, force my eyes onto the 3 by 5 inch digital screen of my mobile, gathering the disconnected bits and bytes of bland tuppence that my social networks serve to me on-demand. To peer at these angled protrusions as they march by, i am breaking the social contract i have entered into by donning the clothes of a well-behaved, professional gentleman.

I'd take the moments i catch a glimpse of this spectrum of human beauty over all the shaved iced treats in the world the humid, hot weather permits. I thank each and every one of you for sharing, but i needn't dare tell you that i noticed.

Rotten

This is an unpublished vignette that i wrote a while ago:

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I'd just dropped off my bike to get a tune-up, and turned the corner when suddenly i was hit by inspiration. No, it wasn't the kind of inspiration that brings me to type these words into this editor window. It was a different kind of inspiration, and i can't really say where it came from but it took a very simple form:

I wanted to spoil my girl

I occasionally get these urges, just out of the blue, where i want to go get something nice and pretty for her that will come as a complete surprise. She'd recently been complaining about her wardrobe, how she was kind of bored with it. I understood what she meant, but making a change to it wasn't her responsibility. For a very long while, my girl has abided by a dress code of my design. Anything new introduced to it is either selected by me or put forth for my approval.

I told myself that i would walk the avenue, looking in the store windows, and if i saw anything that inspired me to purchase, i would execute. This search lasted all of four minutes. I passed a store where all the dresses are hand-designed and sewn by the shoppe's owner, and there was a dress that screamed "my girl." I entered the store and asked to see the dress so i could find out whether the measurements matched those of my tightlaced beauty's. I came to find out that there were only four dresses made in this style, and it just so happens the one we were looking at abided by her dimensions (almost eerily so). I told the shopkeeper that i would be right back. I wanted to think about it, give some of the other stores an opportunity to woo me. Alas, after a short survey of the competitor's windows, it became clear the dress had a new owner.

When i brought the dress home, i hid the gift-wrapped box behind a chair in the foyer, and greeted the missus in the kitchen. We spoke a little, as i withdrew some cold refreshment out of the ice box. Filing through the mail, i nonchalantly asked her to fetch the bag behind the chair.

"What is it?"

She hands the bag to me, as if i wanted the items inside.

"It's not for me."

She knows it's not for me. She makes this gesture to seek my permission to accept the gift.

Needless to say, this dress has become one of her absolute favorites. She wears it well. I mildly worry about the way it may have spoiled the rest of her wardrobe.

Borne this way

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

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

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

God...does that resistance stoke the flames in my mind.

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.

Porn: the scapegoat

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

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

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

When she says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matters undermind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dominating the conversation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In response to "Amanly"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's at play there?

Amanly

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

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

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



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



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

And, this completely escapes and baffles me.

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

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

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

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

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

Or is it?

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

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

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

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

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

This mask

There is this mask.

This mask.

This one.

This mask that i put on her.

And she disappears.

Disappears.

Completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And.

I.

Succumb.

#ThereislittlemuchIcandotostopmyselffromthinkingaboutthispinklatexrubberhood#

Context

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ample

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

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

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

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

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

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