The book on bottoming

I went looking for something new to read on the flight home and picked up The New Bottoming Book.

As an aside, let me point out for a moment that while the Amazon Kindle might be the best thing to ever happen to taking books along on vacation (maybe it isn’t, I don’t know), what it has done to my reading habits is ensure I never finish any books. If I lose interest for only a second, I just tap the little shopping cart and have a whole new book on my device in about six seconds. Not the best for those of us with attention spans formed by watching too much MTV as a kid. Anyway…

A few random thoughts regarding random passages I’ve highlighted as I’ve gotten 27% of the way through (the Kindle tell you that, you know, but not what page you’re on, so I can’t tell you where these are exactly).

When we bottom, we feel nurtured and taken care of — so, paradoxically, we may feel safer in the “dangerous” world of S/M than anywhere else.

The parallels are not exact, which I’ll get to in a minute, but this is absolutely true. A lot of people may (do) ask, why in the world would you want to give up your orgasms or wear a chastity device or fill in the blank with any sub-type sacrifice? And yes, on the face of it, it may seem strange to want to give up freedoms or basic pleasures, but in exchange I feel like I get so much more. Belle wanted me back in the Steelheart as soon as we got home last night so I was. And it was a pain because I’ve been out for so long and my body forgot what it was like to be in and it woke me up like four times when the stupid penis tried to get hard and, good lord, on the face of it, why o why do that? But I didn’t once feel put out. I didn’t once feel annoyed by it. I felt just what the authors said in the quote. Taken care of. Comforted.

Being locked up is a physical manifestation of Belle’s love for me. It’s what I need and she gives it to me. Submitting to her makes me all warm and gooey inside. It just does.

Bottoming offers us a chance to please the people we care about, with a perfect pedicure, a dusted mantlepiece, really skillful oral sex, of whatever else gives pleasure.

Again, true. And this is one of those areas where I think I’m a sucky sub. I want to do things for Belle and make her happy, but she likes to do things for herself. To the point that by the time I thickly understand she needs help, she’s all pissed at me for not. And I’m just not very creative when it comes to thinking of things I could do for her. Also, I’m a slug and need to be given a jolt to move. So, I’m bad at spontaneously seeing things and she’s bad at asking. Something we both need to work on, but me especially.

I recently suggested that she could “order” me to do things for her by saying “I’ll let you do such and such for me.” Seems like a good phrase because I do want her to let me do things for her and she’s not so good at always using the standard issue hawt domme lingo. Also, “I’ll let you do this for me” can be said in front of the Muggles and they’ll never know any D/s is happening at all. She used it once already and just hearing the words turned me on and energized me. I hope we can keep this in the repertoire.

The part where it gets kind of fuzzy for me is the “if you were a halfway decent partner, you’d want to help anyway” thing. True. But I can’t help the subbie pixie dust that gets sprinkled on stuff she “lets me do” for her. I can’t separate it. And why bother? If it works, it works.

[T]he desires we play with are not rational. The desire you may have to be utterly bottom, to be operated by and operated on by another, to be very small, to be owned: this desire is not reasonable. It is, however, powerful, and even the best bottoms have many a desperate argument with themselves on the subject of lust versus sanity.

I needed to hear that. We kinky folk seem to spend so much time thinking about this shit. I know I do. Why? Why do I want this? Why does it make me feel good? Especially the other day. But, I read that and hear, “It’s OK to be a freak and stop thinking about it so much.” I’ll try.

“Normally, you have a ‘bubble’ of protectiveness you put around yourself to prevent yourself from being physically or emotionally hurt. When you agree to top someone, you’ve agreed to put that bubble around you and your partner for the duration of the scene.”

Except we don’t do scenes. Well, not as such. She will occasionally tie me up or hurt me, and I guess those are “scenes,” but we live this stuff. While I don’t think the sentiment is wrong at all, it just highlights how the book (so far) seems to be written with a very scene-based approach and not from a lifestyle perspective. That’s not a fault as I would assume most people are looking for that kind of POV.

In any event, it’s a good example of how hard it must be being the F in an FLR. Bubble extension? Like, all the time? Of course, she can’t do that. So I need to fill in the blanks for her when she’s not feeling it. Even if you don’t buy the bubble extension metaphor, I think it must be harder being a top all the time than a bottom only because topping, to me, sounds like a lot more work. Kinda related to this next one…

If you try to make your scene look exactly like your fantasy in every detail, you’re scripting too tightly: your top will find it virtually impossible to play with you, and you are very likely to encounter interruptions and disappointments as reality stubbornly refuses to conform to your fantasy. Fortunately  you can help reality along by running the complicated or excessive parts in your imagination.

This resonates because, as I said, above, sometimes I need to fill in the blanks created by Belle not wanting or being able to be what I need her to be 24/7/365. This is not a weakness on her part at all. It’s just reality.

Also, for those guys who are just starting out or trying to find a way to approach their partners about denial or chastity or FLR or whatever, reality will not be what your fantasy is. The faster you figure that out and not define success by how closely the two mesh, the happier you and your partner will be. They cannot be your fantasy partner because they are, in fact, real people with their own needs and desires, etc. It seems to me being in a D/s relationship — or any relationship — is compromising on those areas where your partner cannot meet your expectations, molding some of your expectations around those desires they are able to partially meet, and totally reveling in those areas where they meet or exceed your expectations. Your relationship is a Venn diagram and there will always be two circles, not just your one.

As I read more of the book and find things that move me to expound, I will. For now, though, that’s enough expounding.

Grumpy Thumpie

So as not to present one with the idea that this orgasm denial stuff is just one big shiny balloon forever floating heavenward towards sexual nirvana, I will relate the embarrassing (for me) events from a few days this past week.

Belle woke from her afternoon nap (laying out by the pool can really wear a girl down) and I, laying beside her in wait, jumped her. This is in itself a bit out of character since I had no reason to believe she wanted me to, but she was already naked so I made my move. She was apparently amenable to the idea since she let me put my mouth on her nipple uninvited.

Sex comes, of course, in many varieties. Among the best and most indulgent examples of the art is the kind known as “afternoon sex.” A truly decadent derivative of afternoon sex is the “afternoon while on vacation and the kids and rest of the family are downstairs but our bedroom door is locked so it’s OK and, oh, did I mention the warm Trade Winds blowing in through the huge windows and over our naked bodies” kind of sex. That’s what we were having. I licked and suckled her nipples and traced her moistening clit lightly with the fingers of my right hand and the penis was ridiculously hard.

My assertiveness continued when I offered Belle the penis as the vehicle to her pleasure. I wanted her to fuck me. Or, more precisely, I wanted to fuck. Maybe I’d be able to hold it together, maybe I wouldn’t. I really wasn’t thinking that far out. I made the offer out of a selfish desire. She commented that that was usually her decision and, since she didn’t mount me, left it to me to figure out all by myself that I was to continue along the lines of what had already been started. Eventually, though, my fingers and mouth proved not to be enough and, rather than take the still rigid and needy meat for a ride, she had me use Pink. My Belle’s orgasm was still reluctant to show itself, so she took the vibrator from me and took care of herself while I was left to nipple duty and the penis, once filled with such optimism and enthusiasm, was left to drip forlornly all by itself.

It was during this period of my being only somewhat tangentially involved in the activity I initiated that whatever lizard-driven assertive zeal began to falter. By the time she came, the penis had lost its stiffness and I felt somewhat guilty at my previous behavior. Belle, of course, didn’t know what was going on in my head or that I was once so focused on getting the dick wet (damned the torpedoes!). As she was enjoying her post-O glow, I felt as though I shouldn’t get any more. I knew she was about to invite me to fuck her and didn’t think I deserved it. As I was formulating a way to express this, she told me I could go for a ride if I wanted to.

Which is to say, I had a choice. And I had a preference (not to). But when the time came to make the call, the lizard showed that he still had some fight left in him and pulled me, penis first, into Belle. This whole trip, my trigger has been very itchy and I was on the verge of coming almost immediately. I wasn’t just riding the edge, I was tiptoeing over the individual atoms of the razor sharp knife. The kind of edging where a simple shift in position causing the penis to move a half an inch inside her would send the whole thing over the falls. The kind where the lizard with his usual marginal influence over my actions has a disproportionate ability to make things my bunny side would rather not happen. This time, though, the lizard was in the ascendence.

Belle perhaps sensed where I was and told me to get off. Ride was over. And that command, which I’ve accepted is entirely hers to make, planted a seed of anger. I wasn’t mad at her. More likely myself for doing what I didn’t think I deserved and letting myself get so close to the forbidden objective and resenting her authority over making me stop. That little seed, fertilized with my guilt, sprouted and grew as the day went on so that by the time night fell, I was being sullen and standoffish to everyone.

In thinking about it afterward, I think my button got pushed too many times. Too many times at the edge. My hormonal load had to be sky high. Sometimes, denial can be very hard and not for the reasons that seem obvious at first.

My emotional issues came back a few days later and with greater intensity. I was making dinner and it wasn’t going perfectly. Not badly, just not perfectly. But each little imperfect thing was snowballing exponentially with every other little imperfect thing and I found myself swimming in anger.

Honestly, I don’t want to talk about it. We’ll just skip ahead to later that night.

Belle came to bed and was mad at me for being such a child. I was still mad, and she was there, so I attached it to her. But I wasn’t mad at her. By that point, I was mad at myself for being an ass and ruining our evening. Our conversation started out as an argument but devolved quickly into me sobbing inconsolably for being such a pathetically bad partner. All trip, I had been telling Belle how badly I wanted to make her happy and, due I think to the symptoms of the very act of my submission to her, I failed miserably.

I hadn’t cried like that or felt like that about myself in a long time. So much self-doubt. Self-pity. Intense feelings of being weird. Of being a freakish burden to her. I was afraid she’d make me come just to snap me out of it and that sounded so much worse than anything else. I felt convinced that if she had known the real me when we married she wouldn’t have gone through with it. Pathetic, really.

But I’m better now. The tears were cathartic and I’ve apologized to Belle so many times she’s told me to shut up about it. All I can do now is learn from the experience and try to realize when it’s happening again and try to stop it before it goes too far. I’ve redoubled my focus on her and her needs. More than anything, my little tantrum felt like a deep betrayal of my submissive nature and promise to Belle. Thinking about it now leaves me feeling deeply ashamed of my actions. I am profoundly sorry.

We’re leaving for home today and Belle’s said I’ll be going straight back into the Steelheart as soon as we get there. We both feel my attitude would have been better had I been locked up. Being contained changes me for the better. It’s been far too long since I’ve done hard time and I have a deep craving deep in my soul for the comfort and security of the steel. I have a week-long camping trip at the beginning of May and Belle’s said I’ll be locked until then.

God, I need it. And god, I love her for being able to see that I do.

Peanut buster parfait

It is in that moment before your beloved drops her balled-up fist with as much might as she can muster between your open legs and onto your exposed and oh-so-vulnerable testicles where you experience primal terror. All the evolutionary safeties, who would usually be screaming at your higher brain to stop and cover yourself, are quivering in fear in the dark little box into which you’ve locked them. Your heart flutters and you have to will your legs to stay apart…

Continue reading “Peanut buster parfait”

An old friend drops by

Imagine my surprise yesterday when I saw in my notifications that a guy I know from way back in high school is now following this blog. I wasn’t all, “Oh god, hide the flogger and penis pictures, quick!” But I was, “Hmm. How’d he happen to find my little corner of the internet?” So I asked him.

Turns out, WordPress may have been the culprit. I haven’t tried this myself, but apparently you can “find friends” through the WP back-end (I found friends through my back-end, once upon a time, but in a different way). Somehow, through the intricacies and annoyingly complicated tendrils of the social interwebs, my friend (whom I will now call J) was suggested his old high school buddy’s secret sex blog. This is odd because I’ve tried to be somewhat careful with regard to keeping my two web presences disconnected. I have a Facebook account for Thumper and me, but I’ve never connected mine to this blog, just Thumper’s. I also have separate Gmail accounts.

Ah, well. As I’ve said many times in my professional life, there is no such thing as privacy on the internet.

J asked if I was OK with him reading my blog. I thought that was nice. I basically said, well, I put it out there to be read, so if you’re game, go for it. I am, ultimately, not ashamed of this site or myself and J is an old enough friend from so far back (when all our sexualities were bumping around each other like baby hippos learning to walk on land) that at least 17% of that I write here won’t come as a surprise to him.

I sometimes (well, a lot of the time) resent the whole “code of anonymity” thing that comes with blogging about one’s sex life. This is sort of the opposite issue from the other day (or maybe it’s the ultimate symptom of it), but sometimes I wish none of this was secret. It adds a layer of emotional and mental overhead that I’m not crazy about. Now J knows. Add him to the two or three other people who know me in real life who are also aware. Funny, the sky hasn’t fallen.

The way I think about it is this. I will not advertise to anyone in my circle of friends, family, or coworkers that this is who I am. Some people do advertise and vociferously, of course, and more power to them, but I don’t like living that way. But, I will not deny who I am when the subject comes up, however it comes up. If someone happens upon this site accidentally, I can’t be blamed. I did my best to keep them from having to know this about me (there are people I know whose sex blogs would drive me screaming into the hills, so I’m not pretending everyone I’m acquainted with really and truly wants to see my penis selfies). However, if after they find it, they don’t spontaneously combust and actually start to explore this part of my life, I would prefer that they somehow make it known to me that they’re doing it. It won’t change anything about how I do this, but I’d like to know just the same.

Vacation Ketchup


Oh, yeah, hey! I got this blog thing I do, don’t I?

So…where were we?

I was in SXSW. Then I was home. Then I was off for another trip. Then I came home. Then we went on vacation. That’s where we are now (and that’s our view above). Too much traveling in too short a time. I was mentally and physically tired and too busy to even think about blogging, though it’s not like I didn’t have anything to say.

Belle sent me to SXSW unlocked, as I’ve said, and I stayed that way for most of the time. It’s odd being the “chastity guy” and not wearing a device like that. I’ve always said I didn’t have the self-control to be able to pull it off absent her supervision (or even with her supervision, now that I think about it), but there I was in a hotel room far away from Belle and…nothing. It was like a force field was around the penis or something. It was still there and I would have liked to play with it, but somehow it never happened. Finally, after three days or so, I was laying in bed getting ready for sleep and it started to twitch. I grabbed at my nuts and pulled on them, trying to ignore the penis, but just the feeling of its rapidly swelling weight on my arm was enough to send me scrambling for the Looker.

So, in the end, I did what I was supposed to do. I locked the penis when temptation reared its head. Also, I admit, I missed the feeling of being constrained. But, before then, I was effectively in a chastity device made only from my dedication to her control over me.

After I got home, Belle left me out until I had to travel again, but after that I was locked until we left on our trip. We didn’t bring a device with us, so I’ll remain out for at least the next week. Belle leaves town shortly after we get home, so I doubt it’ll stay free n’ floppy then.

Yesterday as Belle and I were soaking in our vacation house’s hot tub, I mentioned to her that I had more or less stopped counting days. Like, I have no specific idea how long it’s been since I came (and stop myself from thinking about it to keep it that way) and, even though there’s a link over there in the sidebar, I’m not thinking about the year and half or so left. I’m just being. Orgasmless is how I am. It’s not some little town we’re driving through. It’s freeing, in a way, not to focus on the beginning or the end.

But then I’ll find myself inside her (as I was this morning) and fuck it all if I don’t want to come worse than anything in the world. Every little cell and all the energy they contain are focusing all their wills on the penis and the feeling of the heavy PA ring sliding around inside its head and the hot, wet walls of her pussy slipping and sliding along its shaft and HO. LY. SHIT but I want to fill her up. As it was, I leaked enough to have it run down her leg when she got out of bed, but the craving cells were left wanting more, as usual.

This afternoon, she napped and I sat naked out on our balcony enjoying the late afternoon sun. The family is here, but the balcony is strategically positioned so as to be hidden from the rest of the house. There are other houses on the surrounding hills, but few appear to be close enough to be able to make out a small naked figure outside ours and, even if they could, I wouldn’t care. There is one house close by, but it appears to be deserted (not “nobody’s renting it right now” deserted, more like “I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids” kind of deserted). If anyone was there, they’d see me easy, but there isn’t. In any event, this is the kind of house where I could easily be naked for a full week and nobody but Belle would know. Someday…

So anyway, I let her sleep, but when she woke up I was making moves on her which she easily rebuffed. I was good and didn’t push it, but she let me jack off for ten whole minutes. That’s the first time I’ve done that since I can’t remember when. It felt wonderful. I went right up to the edge pretty quickly and milked a solid slug of goo from the happy shaft. Then again, and again, and again. I licked it all up and let it all sit in my mouth, enjoying the flavor and feel of it running over my tongue. I was a real little cumslut and had a mouth full of the stuff before gulping it down in two swallows. Once it was milked dry, I was able to well and truly pound away at the stiffy for several minutes before getting back up to the edge again, but it felt different this time. Like a dragon rushing up out from a great crack in the earth. It wasn’t going to be denied, so I wrenched my hand away and was left panting. Looking at my iPhone, I saw I still had almost three minutes left, but I dared not tempt it.

We still have a full week in this paradise. If anything good happens, I’ll be sure to let you know. In the mean time, wanna see a picture of me in my new hat?


Today at SXSW I attended a panel discussion called “Old Tech, New Tech, Same Old Sex?” (hashtag #techsex) and, even though the word sex was right there in the title, it wasn’t very well attended. Which is too bad, because it was fantastic. Essentially, the panel discussed how “a mix of old and new technologies lead us to ever-increasing ways to connect, share, learn, enjoy” our sexualities online. There was a lot covered, but a few bits have stuck with me as I went about my day.

The first was the double-edgeness of how the internet allows us to see the entirely of possible human sex and sexuality for perhaps the first time in history. Every kind of permutation, from the most straightforward and mundane and obvious to the most convoluted and extreme and nuanced, are laid out for anyone with a smartphone to consume. If you’re like me, this can mean a dramatic expansion of your sexual horizons. Providing form to the amorphous urges and desires I’ve had for as long as my little gonads produced hormones. This is, undeniably I think, a Good Thing. I mean, were I to have been born 30 or 40 years earlier, I’m not sure how I’d have ever found out as much about myself as the web showed me was possible. I am not alone.

Of course, the opposite side of that is young people can find all the same stuff I can. Kids, I’m talking about. And depending on what part of the internet’s sex district they find themselves, they can get a very skewed perception of what sex between adults is like. Since our culture’s so fucked uptight about sex, this may be the only significant sexual education a lot of kids get. This resonates with me especially since I have a fourteen-year-old son who I know for a fact has set out on his own nascent relationship with porn. And now I’m in the position of being the sex blogger who can wax poetically (or, at least, at length) on every kind of thing in his own head but can’t figure out the best vector to take in explaining to his kid what porn is and is not. And then to redirect him towards real resources (like Scarlet Teen or maybe even Dan Savage).

The second thing that’s stuck with me is an extension of the above, I guess. How by putting our sex lives and sexuality out into the world (like I do here) helps destigmatize and perhaps even legitimize alternative deviations from the norm. Think of all the hundreds of thousands (millions, even – tens of millions?) of sex blogs out there now. Think about how the better ones (those who are more than just a thin shell of titillation and provide some insight into their author’s lives) can put a real faces on what could otherwise be stereotyped as prurient deviance. One of the tweeters in the session audience went to far as to say all this helps advance revolution. I’m not sure I’m personally interested in revolution (at least, not yet), but I get his point.

I suppose we lesser mortals separate ourselves from us the revolutionaries by the use of our pseudonymous identities. Real revolutionaries use their names. I’m a cowardly little rabbit. No, really. Another person in the audience, seeing me tweet about the session, recognized me though the blog. She readily identified herself in a friendly way and I…did nothing but compliment her backpack (which was, admittedly, pretty cool). I should have at least said hi when it was over, but passing through the membrane of this world and the one I walk around in is harder than perhaps it should be (overly-often shared pictures of my junk aside). After the fact, one of the panelists also reached out via the Twitter to say hey and let me know she’s read the blog.

It’s very, very weird to be known in such a public place (if even to a handful of people) for such a public display of anonymity. It’s not something I’ve ever experienced and it leaves me somewhat uncomfortable. Not that these nice people have made contact, but that it’s so unexpectedly left me nervous and weirded out. And for what? I’m not ashamed of how I live or what I’ve shared here. Not in the slightest. But I am, ultimately, deeply introverted. And that’s not something I can just skip over lightly. So, in the end, it wasn’t the confidently sexy young woman saying she liked this blog that was surprising, I guess, but me walking up to her and saying hi back would have been significantly surprising. At least for rabbit like me.

That’s quite enough of that. Suffice it to say, the panel was fantastic and my only regret was they couldn’t keep talking for another hour.

What I’d like to do

You know what I’d like to be doing right now? Jacking off. I’d like to be jacking the hard penis, smothered in lube, feeling the heavy PA ring flopping around, nasty pinchy clamps on my nipples. I’d like to watch my fist ride up until it was snug around the penis’ head like a turtleneck sweater and all the crazy fucking nerve endings there firing on my brain like a pirate ship sacking a costal village. Then see the shaft rise up out of my hand, then let it all reverse again. Over and over. Then, when I found myself at the edge of orgasm, I’d let go of the poor thing and let it surge and struggle and flex and maybe leak a bit, but then I’d lap that up and just keep going. Salty sweet nectar. The prize inside.

But I can’t. The penis is locked up. And even if it weren’t, Belle has forbidden that I touch it in that way. In the past several weeks, I’ve jacked off for a grand total of ten minutes because Belle told me I could for five minutes twice. That’s it. So, even if I didn’t have steel restricting the erection that wants to be stroked, I wouldn’t touch it because that would be against the rules I have taken to heart very seriously and promised I’d follow.

So, instead, I look at porn. Which makes the penis even more constrained in its steel cage and makes the desire to stroke it even greater which causes me to want to look at more porn which makes me…well, you get the point.