I am a lucky man. I really am. Let me start this post by establishing this fact. I do not want the subject i plan to address come back to bite me in the ass because my manner sounds like someone who doesn't understand and acknowledge their blessings. I count them, i give thanks for them, i even try to share them with others. I'm a nice sadist (so i've been told).
As i've reported here many, several, numerous times, my girl and i are connoisseurs of the raging neo-burlesque scene. We had been having so much fun at shows, that eventually, my girl caught the burlesque bug. She started taking classes at the New York School of Burlesque, and because she is an incredibly ambitious creature, she soon found herself performing at the very venues her and i had been frequenting.
Flash forward through the past 6 months. On the weekends - sometimes every weekend, other times she'll skip a few - you can find my girl teasing her butt off somewhere in the city (this is actually the explanation as to why there has been very little in terms of updates on Kitty's site - for those who've been wondering). It's quite wonderful.
That's it. That's the story.
Not enough? Think i'm leaving something out? You're wondering, what's all this "i'm so lucky" song and dance disclaimer? Fine. I'll proceed.
A lot has happened to Deity throughout his girl's metamorphosis from spectator to performer. It's not a matter of not supporting her desire to do this, in case some of you are wondering if that caused any shrapnel in this process. Quite the contrary. I'm incredibly supportive. Any time she gets another solicitation for a gig, i'm the one who offers her excitement and praise. However, the reasons for my support have shifted over time.
Admittedly, when the notion first arose that she would dive into the feathery and glittery world of burlesque, i was all agog about spending my weekend evenings exposed to all that girly shake, shimmy and sway. I thought, "Wow, i get to see hyper, ultra-feminine nudity on a weekly basis, AND get free drinks (that's right, spouses of dancers are often comped on cocktails)? How could i lose?"
***To pause for just a moment, it is important to note that although it may come across as explicit here to my readers, it was not directly assumed that i would be in attendance to all of my girl's performances. And there have been a few occasions where i've not been there in the flesh while she struts her stuff up on stage, but there hasn't been a single evening where i haven't met her at the bar/cafe/lounge after her show, and escorted her home. This is where my motivations to support my girl's passions dramatically shifted.***
Two facets emerged. The first one is the easiest to describe. It is one based on an entrenched desire to protect my girl. I'm not sure how other girls do it, but in this city, in order to maximize your dance card, you pack in as many gigs as possible in a night, and shuttle between them via the subway. In order to do this efficiently, you must be fully glammed out, which of course attracts attention (both polite and unwanted). I understand that women attract this kind of attention on a daily basis, but when you are wearing 2-inch long fake eyelashes, a dress that is 120% about glamor, and patent leather stilettos, you tend to receive a year's worth of wolf whistles in an entire evening. Once this reality was in place, it became quite clear what fed my motivations to support her art - to make sure she wasn't harassed.
But, it turns out, there are not just wolves in the strangers on a train, or those in attendance at a show. There is shiftiness in the producers and curators of the various showcases she pops in and out of. Because i receive a great deal of fulfillment from manipulating and cajoling others with my charm, i naturally slid into the role as my girl's manager. This entails me whispering into the patron's ear during intermission, regaling an engrossing story to the bandleader, or chatting up one of the other dancers - all for one purpose: booking another gig for my girl.
All this activity means that some sacrifice had to occur. Last night, that sacrifice made itself very evident. I'd stationed myself at my "usual spot" at the bar - near the maitre-d, but not too far from the barkeep. It was during a conversation i was having with the restaurant's owner that i realized my own desensitization/assimilation. We we're chatting about my girl's upcoming number - what volume level the track should be, etcetera - and the whole time i hadn't even realized that just five feet away from me, world-class strip-teasing was taking place. It was true. When i took a moment to reflect on it, i confirmed that during other shows, where the silky flesh would otherwise have tantalized me, i was too concerned with finding the best spot to film my girl's act or worried that the lighting wasn't carried out correctly.
Here's my exit. I should grab it while it's clearly within my grasp.
There have been a few occasions, mind you, where she's been made to feel uncomfortable by one of the (usually drunk) patrons, but i won't go into detail about how i responded to those moments (not just yet).
For the most part, i relish the fact that i get to say this is my life (although, i don't get to say it to too many people - another post?). As i said, i'm very grateful, but i'd be deceiving you if i led you to believe that this was what it would be like to have a burlesque dancer lying next to you in bed.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Complete absurdity
In order to look at the subjects of my posts, it takes a great deal of humility on my part. I speak constantly, repeatedly and roundly about the acquisition of material things to satisfy a very eccentric and highly-selective sexual appetite. I'm aware that my kink involves the use of and play with objects (both man-made and human), which gives the perception that i must have a bottomless wallet (or enormous personal debt) and an equally soul-less joy in buying/shopping/collecting.
Couldn't be further than the truth.
My mind is a battlefield under constant struggle between the opposite poles of a simple, ascetic life and the glossy, shiny paraphernalia of my fetishes. I do not own many books, music albums or movies, having reduced my once vast collection in order to have as few material items as possible. I believe that this world, this big stone exists for us to do more than just make a pile of products and trinkets. I'm troubled by how many lives i see dedicated to consuming material goods. I witness dozens of people toiling away at jobs that do not fulfill them only so they can catch the latest sample sale and parade around with this season's Gucci handbag. This confoundedness permeates my life.
I tend to only buy clothing for myself when i absolutely need it. Since it is my goal to contribute as much beauty to this world as i can, i make sure that the few outfits that i possess are handsome and well-appointed. However, should any of these outfits suffer a casualty, it pains me a great deal to have to shop for its replacement. I have literally entered a clothier, looked at a single shirt for 30 minutes, only to convince myself that i can do without and exit the store. A week will pass, and it is clear that the old shirt cannot be mended anymore, and i will trudge back over to the store, to finally make the necessary purchase. But this struggle doesn't end there. The instant i leave the establishment, with shopping bag in tow, i am overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. There have been occasions where i have bought and returned repeatedly the same item, over, and over again.
I have imposed this same leanness to my girl's wardrobe. Whenever she acquires a new dress or pair of shoes, she knows she must rid herself of an existing item - which at first she absolutely loathed. However lately, she has resigned herself to this rule's dominion, altering the timing of her own purchases to follow the shift in her tastes, happily replacing a pair of boring, old pumps with a newer, flashier pair.
At the moment, i am contemplating a very sizable purchase of an item i have been obsessing over for many, many years. Which means, we still haven't addressed the fog of hypocrisy that sits abated off the coast of Deity's shores. Believe me, when i say this, i'm very aware of the contradiction my words present - sentence after sentence. But, when it comes to something that satisfies my kinky appetites, i can almost not help it. When i look at this list, it takes every ounce of restraint in my body to not splurge and purchase every single item on it. Where is this chaste, virtuous and conscientious soul who cannot bring himself to buy a CD of music he's coveted for 11 years? Instead, he is replaced by a bandit who has put these abstract constructions on a strange tier that he believes will bring him euphoric jollies and thrills once he reaches it. (Let us not start the discussion about what happens once he has acquired all of those toys - what then?)
Perhaps, to some of you, this struggle is completely absurd. And that may be true. However, when you see the images coming to us of the struggles and hardship of those victims of the earthquake in Haiti, it makes you question whether or not we are really hear just to buy stuff.
Couldn't be further than the truth.
My mind is a battlefield under constant struggle between the opposite poles of a simple, ascetic life and the glossy, shiny paraphernalia of my fetishes. I do not own many books, music albums or movies, having reduced my once vast collection in order to have as few material items as possible. I believe that this world, this big stone exists for us to do more than just make a pile of products and trinkets. I'm troubled by how many lives i see dedicated to consuming material goods. I witness dozens of people toiling away at jobs that do not fulfill them only so they can catch the latest sample sale and parade around with this season's Gucci handbag. This confoundedness permeates my life.
I tend to only buy clothing for myself when i absolutely need it. Since it is my goal to contribute as much beauty to this world as i can, i make sure that the few outfits that i possess are handsome and well-appointed. However, should any of these outfits suffer a casualty, it pains me a great deal to have to shop for its replacement. I have literally entered a clothier, looked at a single shirt for 30 minutes, only to convince myself that i can do without and exit the store. A week will pass, and it is clear that the old shirt cannot be mended anymore, and i will trudge back over to the store, to finally make the necessary purchase. But this struggle doesn't end there. The instant i leave the establishment, with shopping bag in tow, i am overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. There have been occasions where i have bought and returned repeatedly the same item, over, and over again.
I have imposed this same leanness to my girl's wardrobe. Whenever she acquires a new dress or pair of shoes, she knows she must rid herself of an existing item - which at first she absolutely loathed. However lately, she has resigned herself to this rule's dominion, altering the timing of her own purchases to follow the shift in her tastes, happily replacing a pair of boring, old pumps with a newer, flashier pair.
At the moment, i am contemplating a very sizable purchase of an item i have been obsessing over for many, many years. Which means, we still haven't addressed the fog of hypocrisy that sits abated off the coast of Deity's shores. Believe me, when i say this, i'm very aware of the contradiction my words present - sentence after sentence. But, when it comes to something that satisfies my kinky appetites, i can almost not help it. When i look at this list, it takes every ounce of restraint in my body to not splurge and purchase every single item on it. Where is this chaste, virtuous and conscientious soul who cannot bring himself to buy a CD of music he's coveted for 11 years? Instead, he is replaced by a bandit who has put these abstract constructions on a strange tier that he believes will bring him euphoric jollies and thrills once he reaches it. (Let us not start the discussion about what happens once he has acquired all of those toys - what then?)
Perhaps, to some of you, this struggle is completely absurd. And that may be true. However, when you see the images coming to us of the struggles and hardship of those victims of the earthquake in Haiti, it makes you question whether or not we are really hear just to buy stuff.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
A year of a little less lustful quality
As i trained myself to no longer append "09" to the end of the date and instead use "10", it occurred to me that it was time to summarize the year that has passed on this site. I suppose the title i've chosen for this post is a bit misleading. It might imply that there has been an overall deficit in erotic thrills in my life, but that is definitely not what i mean to imply. As i scanned the rolls of posts that i penned last year, when comparing their amount to years before, i noticed that the number was considerably less. I went from an inaugural output in 2007 of 98 posts, to an unimaginable 125 the next year, then plummeted in 2009 to a measly 68. There are several factors that led to this.
The initial factor comes through very clearly when i look at the posts in the first quarter of 2009. While i'm quite found of the post i wrote about where i turned my girl into a stool, something feels off when you notice i followed it not long after with another favorite of mine involving my gambling with her ability to control her jaw. Even i can see that these are not that different from eachother. Inwardly, i was sensing a bit of redundancy on my part, but i didn't want to mention it. I was hoping i could overcome it. I made it through February, whose highlight was a piece about how the body's reactions can betray the mind, but then i hit my first road bump. I turned to my readers for inspiration, and the posts that followed, while worthy enough to read, don't sound particularly inspired. Another month followed, and the only post in that time that continues to excite me was one in which i compelled you, the reader, to give into temptation. Otherwise, it was as if i was a visitor at my own site. I spoke with nostalgia about those in my past in a clinical tone, one that sounded as if i hoped to squelch any of my emotional connection to the site. I've been in enough failed romances to know what that signals.
The end.
And it came.
I stepped away. I gave myself space. I took the time i devoted to writing on The Lustful Quality and spent it not writing at all (which is something that was COMPLETELY new for me. I've always written). Instead, i took many a walk and spent as little time as i could in front of a computer screen.
A week passed (this may not seem like a long time, but you see, i had been regularly posting, on average - when not on vacation - every three days). Then another. And soon it was a month. I didn't think about the site all that much, which i think was very good for me. But after a point, i started to miss authoring my thoughts as Deity. I still lived my "life" as Deity, but i didn't so much document it as him. And i started to miss that. The thing that i missed the most was writing without pause, without any concern for who was reading my output. That's how i wrote when i first began TransformHer. I just wrote. I didn't know if three people would read it let alone thirty. It was in fact how i'd been writing for the decades prior to me starting this site.
Finally after almost two months away, i came back. Two things immediately changed about my output. I posted more infrequently, which was such a relief to not feel like i had to stuff anything i could throw together into these digital tubes once three days had passed. More importantly, i posted with much more reckless abandon.
You can hear that in this post. It's not the "hottest" or "sexiest" post, but it's exactly what i wanted to write about. I also posted more poems. I haven't the foggiest idea if those are the reasons why you come to read my blathering, but i had to think if it wasn't, you'd move on. Now mind you, this reckless abandon did have its drawbacks.
I got in some serious hot water when i attempted to take a shortcut with a post by piling three disjointed ideas into one, and not really taking heed of the sensitive ground i was treading in that assemblage. Asserting that i was merely addressing the difficult topic of the marks of femininity with a non-chalant, carefree manner in the comments to this post only continued to make the situation worse. Thankfully, my girl came to my aid, to provide deference on my behalf, which i rarely seem to possess.
It was, in the end, a real-life lesson of the principle that if you decide to say whatever you want without regards for your audience, they can take either issue with you or take their eyes elsewhere. It was an important lesson to absorb. For here as well as elsewhere in my life.
My favorite post in the last three months, and the one that really symbolized to me my "return" was my contribution to lg's orgasm project. I felt challenged by the task. It took a great deal of thought about what i wanted to say and how i should construct it, and all of this mental acuity stripped away any target other than myself. In the end, what i posted was for me. I wrote on a subject that i'd always wanted to explore in a manner i'd always wanted to hear.
At the beginning of 2010 (Two-thousand ten or Twenty ten - i'm still undecided), i'm not sure where i'll take Her Erotic Demise. I've really enjoyed my expansion to Tumblr, my audience is very different (read: more males) than it is here because most of what i post is images rather than words, so that difference is an interesting experience. Also, I've been pondering adding a vocal component to this site in the form of a podcast.
Whatever i decide here at The Lustful Quality, i assure you that there will be a lot more, with a particular emphasis on quality. Thank you all for your patience and your visits.
The initial factor comes through very clearly when i look at the posts in the first quarter of 2009. While i'm quite found of the post i wrote about where i turned my girl into a stool, something feels off when you notice i followed it not long after with another favorite of mine involving my gambling with her ability to control her jaw. Even i can see that these are not that different from eachother. Inwardly, i was sensing a bit of redundancy on my part, but i didn't want to mention it. I was hoping i could overcome it. I made it through February, whose highlight was a piece about how the body's reactions can betray the mind, but then i hit my first road bump. I turned to my readers for inspiration, and the posts that followed, while worthy enough to read, don't sound particularly inspired. Another month followed, and the only post in that time that continues to excite me was one in which i compelled you, the reader, to give into temptation. Otherwise, it was as if i was a visitor at my own site. I spoke with nostalgia about those in my past in a clinical tone, one that sounded as if i hoped to squelch any of my emotional connection to the site. I've been in enough failed romances to know what that signals.
The end.
And it came.
I stepped away. I gave myself space. I took the time i devoted to writing on The Lustful Quality and spent it not writing at all (which is something that was COMPLETELY new for me. I've always written). Instead, i took many a walk and spent as little time as i could in front of a computer screen.
A week passed (this may not seem like a long time, but you see, i had been regularly posting, on average - when not on vacation - every three days). Then another. And soon it was a month. I didn't think about the site all that much, which i think was very good for me. But after a point, i started to miss authoring my thoughts as Deity. I still lived my "life" as Deity, but i didn't so much document it as him. And i started to miss that. The thing that i missed the most was writing without pause, without any concern for who was reading my output. That's how i wrote when i first began TransformHer. I just wrote. I didn't know if three people would read it let alone thirty. It was in fact how i'd been writing for the decades prior to me starting this site.
Finally after almost two months away, i came back. Two things immediately changed about my output. I posted more infrequently, which was such a relief to not feel like i had to stuff anything i could throw together into these digital tubes once three days had passed. More importantly, i posted with much more reckless abandon.
You can hear that in this post. It's not the "hottest" or "sexiest" post, but it's exactly what i wanted to write about. I also posted more poems. I haven't the foggiest idea if those are the reasons why you come to read my blathering, but i had to think if it wasn't, you'd move on. Now mind you, this reckless abandon did have its drawbacks.
I got in some serious hot water when i attempted to take a shortcut with a post by piling three disjointed ideas into one, and not really taking heed of the sensitive ground i was treading in that assemblage. Asserting that i was merely addressing the difficult topic of the marks of femininity with a non-chalant, carefree manner in the comments to this post only continued to make the situation worse. Thankfully, my girl came to my aid, to provide deference on my behalf, which i rarely seem to possess.
It was, in the end, a real-life lesson of the principle that if you decide to say whatever you want without regards for your audience, they can take either issue with you or take their eyes elsewhere. It was an important lesson to absorb. For here as well as elsewhere in my life.
My favorite post in the last three months, and the one that really symbolized to me my "return" was my contribution to lg's orgasm project. I felt challenged by the task. It took a great deal of thought about what i wanted to say and how i should construct it, and all of this mental acuity stripped away any target other than myself. In the end, what i posted was for me. I wrote on a subject that i'd always wanted to explore in a manner i'd always wanted to hear.
At the beginning of 2010 (Two-thousand ten or Twenty ten - i'm still undecided), i'm not sure where i'll take Her Erotic Demise. I've really enjoyed my expansion to Tumblr, my audience is very different (read: more males) than it is here because most of what i post is images rather than words, so that difference is an interesting experience. Also, I've been pondering adding a vocal component to this site in the form of a podcast.
Whatever i decide here at The Lustful Quality, i assure you that there will be a lot more, with a particular emphasis on quality. Thank you all for your patience and your visits.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Outside
Since there's no space, come, let us kiss and squeeze;
Or kiss anyway, let's start with that, the kissing, please.
Because it's better than not starting, you agree?
We're good at kissing, kissing all over, pleasantly
And if we kiss, we may as well do more.
For it's just you and me, no one else outside that door.
How is this? My hand? There, holding your breast?
Do i go too far? Or perhaps, should i go the rest?
What pulse is this, that greets me at my touch?
Quivering lips, fingers, hips, sighs of way, too, too much.
Yes, i think i will go on, plundering right here.
And those outside will not abide our passions, my dear.
Or kiss anyway, let's start with that, the kissing, please.
Because it's better than not starting, you agree?
We're good at kissing, kissing all over, pleasantly
And if we kiss, we may as well do more.
For it's just you and me, no one else outside that door.
How is this? My hand? There, holding your breast?
Do i go too far? Or perhaps, should i go the rest?
What pulse is this, that greets me at my touch?
Quivering lips, fingers, hips, sighs of way, too, too much.
Yes, i think i will go on, plundering right here.
And those outside will not abide our passions, my dear.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Where else would i put these thoughts?
- Oh pretty girl on the platform. I stand near you, and not so abstractly or subtly gander over at you. It can't be helped, you see, because your ribbony head of curls caught my eye as soon as i went through the turnstile. And well, i could dip into my satchel and pull out the trade papers i should probably be studying, but then there you are. Pretty. Curly. You haven't yet shown me your eyes - oh my...you are pretty. Incredibly. Surely, you see me. I'm no more than just a few feet from those two big blue beee-yoots. This isn't a game. I'm merely interested in looking at your visage, the same as if i were to stare so intently at a Van Gogh landscape hanging in the Metropolitan. I want to be near that beauty. I want to just stare and admire. I want to be inspired. To be filled with the joy such beauty imbibes you with, to then turn around, and hold the door for that elderly lady, to offer a pleasant smile to that stranger waiting for the bus near my apartment. I want to be charmed, and hopeful in turn, be charming.
- I do so much walking in this city. There can only be so much entertainment one pursues in the headphones plugged into their ears. I offer to those of you who read these words the opportunity to chime in on whether the next behaviors i describe are creepy or endearing: I'm rushing, late (by my terms, which really means i'm right on time) for an appointment. I weave in and out of the stragglers on the sidewalk. I don't shove anyone. It's all on me. I duck, bend, shift, scoot and bow - all to make my way through a congested alleyway. I look at my watch every few steps. How can it still only be that time? Seriously? Boy, when did minutes go so fast? And then, suddenly, without any hesitation, i stop in my tracks. Ahead, there is a beautiful woman who has stopped to study the tantalizing window display at a dress shop. My steps are methodically slower, angling my approach so that i walk behind her by just a few inches. Right as i'm upon her, i close my eyes, suck in the air around her through my nostrils just so i can sense her perfume. My forward progress carries me a few feet past her, as the remnants of her bouquet pay their last respects upon my nostrils. And then, without hesitation, i resume my hurried march to my appointment, with 100% certainty she has no idea what her lovely perfume has done to lift my day.
- I do so much walking in this city. There can only be so much entertainment one pursues in the headphones plugged into their ears. I offer to those of you who read these words the opportunity to chime in on whether the next behaviors i describe are creepy or endearing: I'm rushing, late (by my terms, which really means i'm right on time) for an appointment. I weave in and out of the stragglers on the sidewalk. I don't shove anyone. It's all on me. I duck, bend, shift, scoot and bow - all to make my way through a congested alleyway. I look at my watch every few steps. How can it still only be that time? Seriously? Boy, when did minutes go so fast? And then, suddenly, without any hesitation, i stop in my tracks. Ahead, there is a beautiful woman who has stopped to study the tantalizing window display at a dress shop. My steps are methodically slower, angling my approach so that i walk behind her by just a few inches. Right as i'm upon her, i close my eyes, suck in the air around her through my nostrils just so i can sense her perfume. My forward progress carries me a few feet past her, as the remnants of her bouquet pay their last respects upon my nostrils. And then, without hesitation, i resume my hurried march to my appointment, with 100% certainty she has no idea what her lovely perfume has done to lift my day.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Top me, oh Top me, please.
Ever since my girl got me an iPod Touch for Christmas last year, i have developed a gradually growing addiction for podcasts. This format has an incredible versatility because the shows can run the gamut of slick, professionally produced media spectacles to the low budget dude-with-a-mic-in-his-living-room-just-chatting. Couple that with how they are delivered to me, only in my ear, an air of intimacy has built up around my listening experience. As it shouldn't be a surprise, i've gone in search of kinky, SM podcasts, and to my surprise there are a good number of them. It's quite an enjoyable thrill to queue up one of these sexual broadcasts, board my morning subway train, and listen to tales of dykes packing dicks, bisexual sex parties, or a latex couples' weekend - all the while surrounded by my completely oblivious fellow commuters.
One thing i've noticed, and it's echoed here in the kinky blogosphere, is the absolute dearth of straight, male dominants/Tops hosting their own podcast (and if indeed there is a show, please feel free to let me know. I'd love to tune in). There is an endless number of quality shows consistent of females of all sexuality, and there are even a number of submissive males. Where are the straight male Tops? Does our viewpoint not excite enough of a following that a podcast hosted by one would find its way into my iTunes store? Some of this is self-explanatory. There just isn't an audience for the male perspective, especially when that perspective is trying to entice a female audience.
And that's when another thought occurred to me. In a good number of these shows, there are plenty of stories of men paying women a fee for a session of sadistic domination. None of these stories go in the opposite direction. Why have i never heard of a pro straight, male Dominant?
Economically, this means there isn't a market for submissive women to pay some male to practice his sadistic side upon them. I'm not sure what this says about the genders. Automatically, I draw conclusions that it is a product of our male-dominated society. But that is my intellectual assessment. Emotionally, identifying with male sexuality, I feel like a creep. That I have the internal capacity just as a male to need sex so much that I would dole out money feels gross, feels a little unhealthy. Admittedly, the perception is that boys think about sex more than girls. I'm told WAY more than girls, but that is the kind of gross over-generalization that i care not to make on these pages. That being said, it makes sense, or at least the absence of this kind of media isn't a shock. Maybe male Tops have to maintain a certain mystique that the oral/aural presentation of a podcast doesn't fit? Maybe they are those of few words, and thus couldn't fill the timeslot allocated for a show. Maybe trust is a bigger deal with women, and men will put themselves in considerably riskier scenarios just to blow their load.
I genuinely cannot offer an explanation for why there isn't a bevy of submissive females who need to be under the firm hand of a sadistic Top so badly that they are willing to pay hard-earned cash, or, at the very least, tune-in to hear him talk about it.
One thing i've noticed, and it's echoed here in the kinky blogosphere, is the absolute dearth of straight, male dominants/Tops hosting their own podcast (and if indeed there is a show, please feel free to let me know. I'd love to tune in). There is an endless number of quality shows consistent of females of all sexuality, and there are even a number of submissive males. Where are the straight male Tops? Does our viewpoint not excite enough of a following that a podcast hosted by one would find its way into my iTunes store? Some of this is self-explanatory. There just isn't an audience for the male perspective, especially when that perspective is trying to entice a female audience.
And that's when another thought occurred to me. In a good number of these shows, there are plenty of stories of men paying women a fee for a session of sadistic domination. None of these stories go in the opposite direction. Why have i never heard of a pro straight, male Dominant?
Economically, this means there isn't a market for submissive women to pay some male to practice his sadistic side upon them. I'm not sure what this says about the genders. Automatically, I draw conclusions that it is a product of our male-dominated society. But that is my intellectual assessment. Emotionally, identifying with male sexuality, I feel like a creep. That I have the internal capacity just as a male to need sex so much that I would dole out money feels gross, feels a little unhealthy. Admittedly, the perception is that boys think about sex more than girls. I'm told WAY more than girls, but that is the kind of gross over-generalization that i care not to make on these pages. That being said, it makes sense, or at least the absence of this kind of media isn't a shock. Maybe male Tops have to maintain a certain mystique that the oral/aural presentation of a podcast doesn't fit? Maybe they are those of few words, and thus couldn't fill the timeslot allocated for a show. Maybe trust is a bigger deal with women, and men will put themselves in considerably riskier scenarios just to blow their load.
I genuinely cannot offer an explanation for why there isn't a bevy of submissive females who need to be under the firm hand of a sadistic Top so badly that they are willing to pay hard-earned cash, or, at the very least, tune-in to hear him talk about it.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Myjaculate
No one's ever asked me to discuss my take on the male ejaculatory orgasm, let alone write an entire detailed post about it. When lg asked me if i'd be interested (rather mousily, and i'm sure she was nervously tracing a circle on her desk with her finger as she waited for my answer - but, alas, she didn't have to trace for too long), i was ecstatic. That's one topic i just never thought others would be interested in hearing my perspective on. I immediately replied yes with as much haste as possible.
And that's as far as my momentum went.
I struggled to find a place where i could begin. Talk about ejaculating? This is one of the few things that i've kept rather privately to myself. None of my partners have ever been particularly curious about what it's like to eject semen out of a penis, and frankly, the subject has never come up with anyone else. That doesn't mean i don't have a desire to spray my thoughts about cumming all over these pages. This indicates that i've struggled to organize my impressions in my head. And, truthfully, i think it's important that this make up part of this post. I'm still shocked that anyone would want to hear about a confidential sensation i've been experiencing nearly everyday for over a quarter of a century. My orgasm is such an emblematic part of me, as integral as my breathing, which makes it all the more difficult to parse and spread out onto a slide to be examined underneath an expository microscope. So, in order to tackle this project, i thought that i would employ a technique that i've used in the past to expound upon a subject. I've broken it up into three, ever expanding sections.
The first: Masturbation, pt. 1 (aka. thrilling)
As i've mentioned before, i really enjoy handling my penis. Sometimes, whilst mid-fondle, my somewhat flaccid member will start to respond and either out of boredom/curiosity/mischievousness i'll choose to push it further. I'll slide my penis between my fore and middle fingers and just wiggle them back and forth, inciting blood to rush into this appendage. Slowly the skin tightens, stretches, and expands. Very shortly, my erect penis is pointed in the air, slanted upwards, throbbing and bobbing in connection with my heartbeat. It's at this point where if i'm sitting, i will stand up. The preferred place for this form of ejaculation is a bathroom. I will lean (if i have privacy) against the edge of a sink, resting the outer rim of the bowl on my thighs, a few inches beneath my crotch. If in a public bathroom, i will pick a stall, and lean against the toilet, bracing my weight right underneath my knees. Regardless of where i am, the posture is all the same.
For this orgasm, all i'm interested in is cumming. It's not about being sexually turned on. It's merely for the sensation of the orgasm, but more importantly, the rush of thick, viscous fluids through the vas deferens, spurting finally out of the gaping hole on the tip of the penis. I will stroke my penis with my entire hand fully enclosed around it, applying more pressure on the underside. My hand glides over the flesh rapidly, causing my wrist to slam into my pelvic bone, and my thumb and forefinger smacking against the rim of my circumcised head. This feels incredible. Every nerve ending in my penis awakens, anxiously anticipating the rapid physical stimulation of my pistoning grip.
When i feel an electrical sizzle on both sides of my groin, i know i'm close. Here's where leaning against a toilet or sink comes into play (something i discovered completely by chance and to my benevolent grace). Timed perfectly with the rising crescendo, i will lean as far back as possible, maintaining my fast strokes, and tense my abdominal muscles as much as possible. This distributes the intense, pleasurable sensation of the orgasm all throughout my mid-section, building and building until finally, deep inside, i feel a pull from within. As if the semen could not be contained, it jets out of my penis, and with each expulsion, a concluding jolt of exquisite warmth explodes across my torso. As quickly as it was begun, it is over. The blood recedes, the erection subsides, and i am left to dispose of the creamy, thick evidence of my debauchery.
The second: Masturbation, pt. 2 (aka. uncontrollable)
Here enters the vast amounts of pornographic material i've accumulated. There is no mistake when i sit down (usually in front of the computer) what i have on my mind. I am already aroused, i've either awoken this way in the morning, which frequently happens, or just suddenly my chemical composition shifts, and i must satiate my customarily-high libido. When i am in this state, there is no need to manhandle my member to encourage blood flow. Blood floweth already. Blood rageth. I am achingly, obliteratingly hard.
In fact, i'm so aroused, that i must be careful in how i touch my penis. In this state, very little needs to occur for me to blow. I will cue up whatever girl being debased/objectified/minimized material i seek, and lower my undergarments. The difference in firmness and size in this state as opposed to the one i previously described is completely palpable. My penis is so swollen and engorged, it flushes a deep violet, purple tone. Starting the media, i take my fingers and lightly rub the underside of my genitals, caressing the (surprisingly) soft, skin, tracing over the wide, flanged head. This minimal contact is amazing. I can feel nerve endings in my spine react to this, crawling up my back and into my neck. It takes every ounce of restraint in my body to not grab a hold of this staff and start thrusting down on it.
When i do finally curl my meaty fingers around my penis, i just choke it at first, squeezing it which in turn causes a neural shudder to tremor through my core. This shakes off any civility left lingering in my foreground. In response, my jaw assumes an inhumane stance, with my lower teeth jutting forward. My breath purchases savage lungfuls of air from the atmosphere. The tendons in my hand scream "STROKE!". The rigid muscles in my forearm concur yelling "STROKE!". My eyes want to see this. My ears want to hear it. My nose wants to smell the thick, pungent musk of my beastly arousal. Playing over and over in my head are the images and sounds of the girl's hopeless plight.
When i begin stroking, blasts of euphoric current shoot down my thighs, past my knees. Jolts of pleasure sever through my crotch, using my penis like a lightning rod, boring megawatts of electrical sizzle deep into my prostate. With this much frenzied stimulation, it won't be long before i cannot hold back any longer. Depending on how long i want to go, i must cease immediately any contact with my penis in order to prolong my release. I will wait a few counts, then quickly jerk on my penis a handful of times, bringing me quickly back to the edge of that delicious waterfall. Then, once again, i pull my hand off. I breathe sinisterly, letting the flow of sadistic juices nourish my mind. I can sustain this dance of edging towards the crescendo for hours, or sow my seed in just a few minutes. Regardless of duration, my eruption remains the same. A sensation of live spirits collecting in my chest signals the commencement, and as these wild creatures join together and push through my veins, my penis begins to violently clench, spasming upward, setting off the ejaculatory impulses. Semen surges through my penis, spraying gush after gush of thin, briney liquid all up and down my torso. This can last upto a minute, and even after completion, the inelastic firmness remains for several minutes more.
The third: Fornication (aka. transformative)
This one was the toughest to write about because truthfully, there exist so many derivatives of this orgasm depending on which female orifice is used, which position she is in, and what other stimuli (i.e. sex toy, bondage, roleplay, fetish, etc.) is involved (or lack thereof). To attempt to capture them all would take numerous posts dedicated to each nuanced version (i.e. her mouth; lying on her back, head over the edge of the bed; blindfolded). I fear the intricacy of each one, although truly enjoyable research material for me to collect, would prove to be less than interesting to my readers. To boil this form of orgasm down to its essence, it is simplest to view this as the hands-free, genital-only, fornicating orgasm.
This is the most intrinsically male of the orgasms, and probably the one that most females are traditionally in the dark about. The masturbatory ones are about toying, frigging, diddling, playing. This one is serious. This one demonstrates the biological and psychological requirement that males must penetrate in order to fertilize the female. This orgasm is the most fulfilling, without a doubt. I gain a deep, intimate connection with my partner, but in addition to that, i embody my ingrained dominant tendencies the most when i use my penis to penetrate her. I'm sticking a part of myself inside of her. I'm inserting me into her. I am joining with her by going within her. I make a hole in her and fill it with me. Once inside of her, the most magnificent, incredible pleasure consumes me. That she has accepted me inside, has adapted to my fleshy intrusion, enveloped me, cradling my most sensitive and yet stimulative appendage satiates my desire to overcome, topple and conquer her. She has surrendered to me in this moment. I am her conqueror, she is the vanquished. I have a lavish, celebratory feast upon her banquet.
In retrospect, this act seems to imply the need for an apology on my behalf. It is done with such force - the kind that when attempted without the heightened hormonal state, would be viewed as barbaric and violent - and after a certain point (of no return) with zero regard for the recipient. In the beginning, when i first dabbled in the coital arts, i knew i held back out of trepidation for the horribly, hungry monster i knew i could become, sparing my lover this ghastly sight. But as i realized i couldn't control it, as its strength grew, sustained by the few droplets of sanguine blood in the water it sensed, i gave up all (completely futile) attempts at reining it in.
But i think that's what makes this such a delicate and treasured experience. Because of these moments, however long they last, we are forcibly removed from the artificial chains of civilization and humanity, and are instead treated as two galaxial bodies whose particles are violently slamming into eachother, creating new, unabashed passion.
We are ultimately and without any restraint, creating life.
And that's as far as my momentum went.
I struggled to find a place where i could begin. Talk about ejaculating? This is one of the few things that i've kept rather privately to myself. None of my partners have ever been particularly curious about what it's like to eject semen out of a penis, and frankly, the subject has never come up with anyone else. That doesn't mean i don't have a desire to spray my thoughts about cumming all over these pages. This indicates that i've struggled to organize my impressions in my head. And, truthfully, i think it's important that this make up part of this post. I'm still shocked that anyone would want to hear about a confidential sensation i've been experiencing nearly everyday for over a quarter of a century. My orgasm is such an emblematic part of me, as integral as my breathing, which makes it all the more difficult to parse and spread out onto a slide to be examined underneath an expository microscope. So, in order to tackle this project, i thought that i would employ a technique that i've used in the past to expound upon a subject. I've broken it up into three, ever expanding sections.
The first: Masturbation, pt. 1 (aka. thrilling)
As i've mentioned before, i really enjoy handling my penis. Sometimes, whilst mid-fondle, my somewhat flaccid member will start to respond and either out of boredom/curiosity/mischievousness i'll choose to push it further. I'll slide my penis between my fore and middle fingers and just wiggle them back and forth, inciting blood to rush into this appendage. Slowly the skin tightens, stretches, and expands. Very shortly, my erect penis is pointed in the air, slanted upwards, throbbing and bobbing in connection with my heartbeat. It's at this point where if i'm sitting, i will stand up. The preferred place for this form of ejaculation is a bathroom. I will lean (if i have privacy) against the edge of a sink, resting the outer rim of the bowl on my thighs, a few inches beneath my crotch. If in a public bathroom, i will pick a stall, and lean against the toilet, bracing my weight right underneath my knees. Regardless of where i am, the posture is all the same.
For this orgasm, all i'm interested in is cumming. It's not about being sexually turned on. It's merely for the sensation of the orgasm, but more importantly, the rush of thick, viscous fluids through the vas deferens, spurting finally out of the gaping hole on the tip of the penis. I will stroke my penis with my entire hand fully enclosed around it, applying more pressure on the underside. My hand glides over the flesh rapidly, causing my wrist to slam into my pelvic bone, and my thumb and forefinger smacking against the rim of my circumcised head. This feels incredible. Every nerve ending in my penis awakens, anxiously anticipating the rapid physical stimulation of my pistoning grip.
When i feel an electrical sizzle on both sides of my groin, i know i'm close. Here's where leaning against a toilet or sink comes into play (something i discovered completely by chance and to my benevolent grace). Timed perfectly with the rising crescendo, i will lean as far back as possible, maintaining my fast strokes, and tense my abdominal muscles as much as possible. This distributes the intense, pleasurable sensation of the orgasm all throughout my mid-section, building and building until finally, deep inside, i feel a pull from within. As if the semen could not be contained, it jets out of my penis, and with each expulsion, a concluding jolt of exquisite warmth explodes across my torso. As quickly as it was begun, it is over. The blood recedes, the erection subsides, and i am left to dispose of the creamy, thick evidence of my debauchery.
The second: Masturbation, pt. 2 (aka. uncontrollable)
Here enters the vast amounts of pornographic material i've accumulated. There is no mistake when i sit down (usually in front of the computer) what i have on my mind. I am already aroused, i've either awoken this way in the morning, which frequently happens, or just suddenly my chemical composition shifts, and i must satiate my customarily-high libido. When i am in this state, there is no need to manhandle my member to encourage blood flow. Blood floweth already. Blood rageth. I am achingly, obliteratingly hard.
In fact, i'm so aroused, that i must be careful in how i touch my penis. In this state, very little needs to occur for me to blow. I will cue up whatever girl being debased/objectified/minimized material i seek, and lower my undergarments. The difference in firmness and size in this state as opposed to the one i previously described is completely palpable. My penis is so swollen and engorged, it flushes a deep violet, purple tone. Starting the media, i take my fingers and lightly rub the underside of my genitals, caressing the (surprisingly) soft, skin, tracing over the wide, flanged head. This minimal contact is amazing. I can feel nerve endings in my spine react to this, crawling up my back and into my neck. It takes every ounce of restraint in my body to not grab a hold of this staff and start thrusting down on it.
When i do finally curl my meaty fingers around my penis, i just choke it at first, squeezing it which in turn causes a neural shudder to tremor through my core. This shakes off any civility left lingering in my foreground. In response, my jaw assumes an inhumane stance, with my lower teeth jutting forward. My breath purchases savage lungfuls of air from the atmosphere. The tendons in my hand scream "STROKE!". The rigid muscles in my forearm concur yelling "STROKE!". My eyes want to see this. My ears want to hear it. My nose wants to smell the thick, pungent musk of my beastly arousal. Playing over and over in my head are the images and sounds of the girl's hopeless plight.
When i begin stroking, blasts of euphoric current shoot down my thighs, past my knees. Jolts of pleasure sever through my crotch, using my penis like a lightning rod, boring megawatts of electrical sizzle deep into my prostate. With this much frenzied stimulation, it won't be long before i cannot hold back any longer. Depending on how long i want to go, i must cease immediately any contact with my penis in order to prolong my release. I will wait a few counts, then quickly jerk on my penis a handful of times, bringing me quickly back to the edge of that delicious waterfall. Then, once again, i pull my hand off. I breathe sinisterly, letting the flow of sadistic juices nourish my mind. I can sustain this dance of edging towards the crescendo for hours, or sow my seed in just a few minutes. Regardless of duration, my eruption remains the same. A sensation of live spirits collecting in my chest signals the commencement, and as these wild creatures join together and push through my veins, my penis begins to violently clench, spasming upward, setting off the ejaculatory impulses. Semen surges through my penis, spraying gush after gush of thin, briney liquid all up and down my torso. This can last upto a minute, and even after completion, the inelastic firmness remains for several minutes more.
The third: Fornication (aka. transformative)
This one was the toughest to write about because truthfully, there exist so many derivatives of this orgasm depending on which female orifice is used, which position she is in, and what other stimuli (i.e. sex toy, bondage, roleplay, fetish, etc.) is involved (or lack thereof). To attempt to capture them all would take numerous posts dedicated to each nuanced version (i.e. her mouth; lying on her back, head over the edge of the bed; blindfolded). I fear the intricacy of each one, although truly enjoyable research material for me to collect, would prove to be less than interesting to my readers. To boil this form of orgasm down to its essence, it is simplest to view this as the hands-free, genital-only, fornicating orgasm.
This is the most intrinsically male of the orgasms, and probably the one that most females are traditionally in the dark about. The masturbatory ones are about toying, frigging, diddling, playing. This one is serious. This one demonstrates the biological and psychological requirement that males must penetrate in order to fertilize the female. This orgasm is the most fulfilling, without a doubt. I gain a deep, intimate connection with my partner, but in addition to that, i embody my ingrained dominant tendencies the most when i use my penis to penetrate her. I'm sticking a part of myself inside of her. I'm inserting me into her. I am joining with her by going within her. I make a hole in her and fill it with me. Once inside of her, the most magnificent, incredible pleasure consumes me. That she has accepted me inside, has adapted to my fleshy intrusion, enveloped me, cradling my most sensitive and yet stimulative appendage satiates my desire to overcome, topple and conquer her. She has surrendered to me in this moment. I am her conqueror, she is the vanquished. I have a lavish, celebratory feast upon her banquet.
In retrospect, this act seems to imply the need for an apology on my behalf. It is done with such force - the kind that when attempted without the heightened hormonal state, would be viewed as barbaric and violent - and after a certain point (of no return) with zero regard for the recipient. In the beginning, when i first dabbled in the coital arts, i knew i held back out of trepidation for the horribly, hungry monster i knew i could become, sparing my lover this ghastly sight. But as i realized i couldn't control it, as its strength grew, sustained by the few droplets of sanguine blood in the water it sensed, i gave up all (completely futile) attempts at reining it in.
But i think that's what makes this such a delicate and treasured experience. Because of these moments, however long they last, we are forcibly removed from the artificial chains of civilization and humanity, and are instead treated as two galaxial bodies whose particles are violently slamming into eachother, creating new, unabashed passion.
We are ultimately and without any restraint, creating life.
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