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Motivations

The understanding of one's erotic reaction to things is sometimes tantamount to eating a bowl of soup with a spoon attached to the end of a pool cue. It's messy. It's clumsy. It's cold by the time you taste it. It's largely inefficient, and you don't really get an immediate satisfaction of understanding. The work it has taken to comprehend my own sexual stimuli has precluded that it's not easy to understand someone elses.

Once i came to identify my sexual appetites as those best answered in the cafeteria of power exchange (SM as it was called when i first encountered it), i compiled a list of demands i would present to my next victim, awaiting her to slide hers across the table. We've all made these lists. They usually take the form of an enumerated sheet of our limits. No kids, no blood, no animals, etc. I never placed things that i refused to try on this list. I took greater interest in finding all of the devious possibilities that would excite me, sometimes for shock value, but also because i genuinely delighted in expanding my sensual I.Q.

Once i had my list, i set out on the long windy trail of exploration to find me fulfillment. The only thing i thought i needed was my resolve and the submission of a willing girl. With that in hand, i'd be able to pitch a tent and make the perfect campsite where i would then reap the benefits of my unique appetites in deep, uninhibited seclusion.

Had i known what i know now about my general unpreparedness, i might've been spared hours of intense frustration and self-doubt caused by stubborn and inefficient methods i chose to try to train a girl.

Of course, the first forays, i simply demanded. "Do this." Most times, it would be done, but i wouldn't pay attention to how she would act as she performed the task. My thought was the simple execution was what i was looking for. I just wanted the pert ass held up in the air for me to swat. The blow-job-on-call. The proper feminine appearance, regardless of the real-life difficulties that intervened. What i completely overlooked was her response. In those early goings, i thought that was meaningless. I was the one in charge. When i want to turn on a lightbulb, i flick the switch. It illuminates. I did not carefully understand the wiring that permits the bulb to brighten, nor that i owed the eradication of darkness to this schematic. The switch, it turns out, was the most meaningless part of the exchange.

We come by our fetishes differently despite the fact that we may share the same ones with another person. My interest in latex (shinyness; confinement; purification of skin features) does not necessarily equal hers (industrial/mechanical use; tightness/security; oddity of fabric). This means that when i make a demand that she indulge in a fetish of mine, she will not necessarily react the same way i do, which in turn means she will not have the same motivations to pursue this fetish that i do.

I demand that my girl gets artificial fingernail extensions (socially acceptable yet terminable form of bondage; behavior modification). She, as required, will report her reaction to them (increased feeling of femininity; constant reminder of my imposition/presence). These motivations to dedicate the energy to this task as you can see are not the same, and if i continued to ignore the anatomy of her reactions, she would never develop an internal organic desire, which i ultimately want.

You cannot insert a desire, trust me i've tried. The desire must exist inside of the subject. I insist that heels of no less than 3" are worn. Even when it rains, or when there are sheets of ice on the sidewalk, i insist. I believe it is enough that i insist in order for this to be happily carried out, after all, i make the rules. But knowing that part of my excitement is witnessing her growing desire/need to wear heels (eventually not wanting to go without them - even if there is rain or sheets of ice), insistence serves as an incompetent tool to engender the germination of this into her own will.

One of me and my girl's favorite things to do for a night out is attending a burlesque show. We get the frequent opportunity to benefit from the artform's renaissance, as many talented girls are now taking to the playful frolicking of this old-fashioned revue. A few days after our most recent burlesque venture, i noticed something different in my girl. The forecast was to be a slurry of slush, sleet and slop. I'm usually quite lenient in my heel requirement when a serious injury could occur due to the climate , and i told her that she was excused. We continued to get ready for our day, and as we prepared to leave to commute into work, i noticed she'd chosen to wear a pair of 4" red patent leather pumps, bucking the logical concern of a possible slip and fall.

I was shocked.

"Burlesque?"

"Yeah. I'm inspired."

"Okay. Just don't hurt yourself."

As i walked with her on the sidewalk, navigating through the cold-weather shrapnel, i felt a significant amount of glee in realizing that she wanted to wear heels rather than simply wearing them because i insisted that she do.

Because of this, i've recently decided that we need to go see burlesque more often.

Commissions

I walked into the store, dressed in my usual above average apparel, stopping just a few steps inside the door. I waited. I put my hands in my pocket, looking as relaxed as possible. I scanned the well-appointed boutique, eyeing the gentlemen who prided themselves on their ability to make a man feel special. Not a single one approached me. I hadn't made my intentions clear enough for them to engage. My station right at the front of the store didn't signal commitment. I loved this sort of verbal-less exchange. In the short time i'd stood there, every single one of them had sized up my seriousness at indulging in a purchase and the size of the purchase simply by the quality of my shoes, the cut of my pants and the stitch on my lapels. What they hadn't discerned out of these visual cues was that i wasn't there with the goal of getting the perfect suit boxed up and sent on my way. I was there to be served. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the emporium, engaging the entire staff, regaling them with stories, building a camraderie with them as they fit me with suit after suit, even complimenting my tastes (as if i chose the designs myself).

Once in awhile, i will leave with one of those suits (of course negotiated for a price more to my liking), but most times, i leave with just a single tie. I don't need the threads. I do however need the catering to.

I love being fitted for a suit. I get tingles that run up and down the back of my neck when i am the center of someone's consultation. Sitting in the chair as i get my shoes shined, i just melt, closing my eyes and sizzling with euphoria. The same sensation massages my head when i get a hair cut. I am perhaps the only person who isn't interred and elderly that picks up the phone when the caller ID indicates that it's a telemarketer on the other end. I listen to their pitches, i ask them questions, i inquire about their careers, prying them out of the narrow script they've been trained to follow. It becomes their pleasure to entertain me with their pitch, meanwhile, i'm secretly lavishing this personal attention.

It doesn't just have to involve me as the sole focus. You may also pamper my girl and i get the same thrill. Just the other day, we were at her corsetier. She was being fit for a new underbust s-shaped corset*. I sat in a chair and watched him tug the muslin over her midsection, taking out pins and notching them at spots to get the right action from the temporary boning. He would hold up swaths of different patterned fabrics, demonstrating color combinations he thought would please her. He completed what he needed to do for the corset fitting, and was going to move to the next item, but i stopped him before he removed the mock-up from her body. I wanted him to proceed with it still on. He pulled out the custom latex armbinder (that i had designed), with attached boned bustier, and slipped this up her two arms clasped behind her back. He laced it until her elbows met in the middle, then buckled the dozen straps further anchoring her immobilized appendages to her body. I got up and walked around her, examining the device. I pointed at certain areas where i felt a few inches could be lost, other areas where the contour of her beautifully gloved hands could be more pronounced. He made notes as i finished my inspection, taking dictation of my wishes. I've commissioned many things from him, and the attainment of the objects matches the pleasure i derive from him serving me only because what he crafted ultimately symbolizes my specific desires.

These types of exchanges happen on a daily basis, entering into negotiations and fulfilling contracts. Every time i find myself in one of them i think the following:

"You are looking to get something from me, when all i'm looking for is to get served."

*(not pictured on his site)

Sugasm #81

Sugasm #81

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #82? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks
Do / Do Not (lafillemariee.blogspot.com…)“Do – stop in the hallway to kiss and fondle me before even getting to the room.”

The Red Cross of Fucking (perverselypoly.blogspot.com…)“They can pay her a “finder’s fee,” and everybody will be happier.”

Review: The Amputee’s Guide to Sex (www.radicalvixen.com…)“When he first mentioned it he turned his disability into a fetish.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Meet Lin Chong, Dong Assistant (sugarbank.com…)

Editor’s Choice
Mothers day 3 (joeheather.blogspot.com…)

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday (Fleshbot.com)

BDSM & Fetish
Art, human condition and spanking (www.spankingwriters.com…)
Darkness (transformher.blogspot.com…)

Thankfully, looks are deceiving

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


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

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

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

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

Consent

Charting all of my sexual conquests creates a list that is severely lopsided in one direction. 'Conquests' perhaps is not the right word. That implies offense, battering rams, hordes of marauding mercenaries spilling over village walls. I don't seek and conquer women. I set sexual traps.

I was walking across the street the other day, minding the oncoming traffic, when my head suddenly filled with the catalogue of females i've dated, been involved with, or even just flirted with heavily. I was standing on the curb, but instead of waiting for a break in the flow of cars, i wanted one to stop dead still for me, so that i could proceed. I moved my body onto the street, and nudged my way out into the boulevard until some unlucky sap stepped on the brakes, seeing that i was resolute and held the winning position in this game of chicken. My romantic exploits mimick this. I continued on my way, following the pattern i was tracing in my head that demonstrated a regular practice of baiting the females in my life.

From the earliest time that i explored the dynamic of inter-gender intimacy, i would identify someone i liked then make my cast to entice her interest in me. I'd dangle my baby blues, my charm long enough for her to get hooked. But, that would be as far as i would go. I wouldn't "close the deal". She would have to make the first move. Once she did, once her appendages got stuck to the fibers of my web, i'd come out of the dark and pounce on her. The more i examined this pattern, the clearer it became what i have always been seeking.

I've never told a girl that i loved her first. Now some of you may think this is common among menfolk. My reasonings do not necessarily follow the typical male reticence to admit love. I can count on two fingers the number of girls i've approached and asked out, whether it was at a bar, a cafe, the library, a store. Anywhere. I let them come to me. I let them express any semblance of attraction before i moved on them. That would be in the kindest and most humane instances. There were many girls who expressed their affection, and i would play with them, sadistically toiling with them, but never indulging their wishes. I'm not proud of that. Much of this i'm not proud of, but i recognize why i acted this way. I acted according to a code that resembled that of Bram Stoker's most copied character. I needed to be invited in before i would feast upon her flesh.

In my massive library of pornographic material (consisting of items that are both overtly and unintentionally pornographic), the stories, images, or videos make up a curatorial exhibit on the act of consent. Sure, littered amongst the articles are those few shots where a girl suffers without any clear evidence of her wanting to be there, but those are so rare, especially considering the size of my collection (Bigger or smaller than the Library of Congress? Don't insult me with a comparison to that book cart). The long thread that weaves in and out of the various kinky sundries i nibble on - whether it be a girl enveloped in layers of latex and turned into a rubber doll, or a simple over the knee ritual swatting - uniting the diversity into one theme is the implied or proudly stated desire to participate. I lose my marbles so much quicker watching a girl suffer in agony knowing that she would give her last marbles to partake in this ordeal.

My pursuit is not the act of gaining permission and then, only then, proceeding with my twisted agenda. The actual accordance to proceed makes up a large part of the enticement. My mouth has long hydrated itself when it has found a female victim who wants me to infect her with my sordid and dangerously medieval mind. Once i have her, the constant presence of her willingness fuels my twistedness, pushing me to search the extents of my own sadism.

the Slut vs. the Lady

There are days that i find myself walking behind some of the filthiest trash, causing my stomach to turn. It's worse in the hot, summer heat. Something in the swelter releases a chemical in the minds of a number of women, convincing them that they should dress as skimpily and vilely as possible. This chemical also seems to block their ability to recognize what is sensible. I see the most lurid of sights parading on the sidewalks:
-vicously tight jeans whose top line seems to recede more and more each passing year, and whose shape makes a trip to the ob-gyn more stream-lined
-visible panties (g-strings or thongs) as a result of the eroding coverage the above pants provide
-backless, belly-less, shoulder-less...really material-less tops that cling to the gal's torso like a frightened child to its mother
-multiple bra straps serving as evidence that the wearer in fact owns undergarments
-belly piercings
-fabrics of bold, tacky and loud colors

The men i work with will oggle and drag their tongues along the dirty street whenever they see a female dressed like this. They'll elbow eachother, whistle, snicker, say something crude like "I'd do her," all of which are appropriate (and sought after?) reactions to this kind of dress. The female is dressing like a slut, and for some reason, this is being celebrated, even coveted within our appalling fixation on the lives of celebrities. Names such as Paris, Britney, Lindsay are everywhere. I recently heard of a website (although i haven't wasted the time to verify that it exists) where thousands of young girls are said to have signed a petition urging Governor Ah-nold to show clemency to Paris (for a jail sentence she is serving for an infraction i don't really care to know), indicating in their pleas her massive contribution to society. What the hell is going on? Why are our young girls being fed images of sluttier and sluttier depictions of how they should physically present themselves? Anyone can look at the line of Bratz dolls and see the flimsy outfits that even pre-pubescent girls are being fed as models for their own appearances.

Now, before this trails off on a sociological rant, i assure you, readers, i intend to lasso it within the rope of my kink. I have publicized already how i prefer feminine beauty to be displayed. Thankfully, fluttering among these skanks are women who choose to highlight and accentuate their femininity rather than cheapen it to a level barely above an All-Nude stripper. These are the gals who dress in skirts that spill over their curves in a modest but striking manner. They don heels that give shape to their calves, and an oomph to their gait, but do not clod about in gawdy monstrosities. Their jewelry acts as tasteful ornamentation, not expressions of their skills at accumulating. I am more impressed by a woman who leaves mystery in her appearance, puts effort into her countenance and does it all with class. I am attracted to the lady.

Oh, i want to turn her into a slut, but i want her to be my slut. This contrast i recognize is confusing, and even i have struggled with it. Over the period of time i've been with my girl, i've gained an appreciation for modesty. I don't want my girl to look like a pornstar. I fear that there are females who believe there is power in looking that way. I feel the opposite. By withholding, restraining, and concealing your assets instead of baring all, the true power of feminine beauty is realized.

And of course, there is power in showing off my girl when and how i want to.