Horrible no good night

“Well, at least it’ll give you something juicy to blog about,” said Belle following the biggest, nastiest, most horrible fight we’ve had in…maybe ever.

It all started on Instagram. As regular readers from way back should know, about eightish years ago I had an affair. The Other Woman (TOW) was a friend of mine and still is (though we have far less contact now, for perhaps obvious reasons). I follow her on Instagram and we’re friends on Facebook, etc., because as friends join these sites you follow them and they follow you, but I can’t even recall the last time I laid eyes on her or we spoke (another reason for this is she lives about 900 miles away). Our contact is tangental and not unlike a lot of acquaintances in the age of social media.

In any event, she posted what could be described as a provocative selfie to Instagram the other day. I found it a bit of a surprise (I know, the guy who posts penis pictures to Tumblr should be surprised, but whatevs) and commented something like, “Um…hello.” I didn’t “like” the picture and no back-and-forth comment conversation took place as a result. I honestly felt as though I did nothing wrong.

Of course, you can see where this is going.

Belle’s also on Instagram and, it turns out, looks at the activity of those she’s following (like me). Also, it turns out, that comment showed up there. I hardly ever look at that and didn’t even think about being “caught” by it. I wasn’t thinking about being caught because I didn’t think I had done anything to be caught over. Regardless, she caught me.

And then everything went to hell.

I’ve put off writing this post because I really don’t want to get into it again. It was the worst fight we’ve ever had, I think, including the rows we had back when I told her about TOW. These were worse because I felt as wronged as she did. I have literally given her the key to my heart and yet was being accused of…what, I can’t say. Betrayal something. And I know her reaction was just pure fear and unearthed all kinds of nasty nuclear waste. It was all horrible. It was the only night I’ve ever not slept with Belle.

Oddly enough, Belle had let me out of the Looker 02 earlier in the day. We were going to have a kid-free evening and, even though she was on her period, she let me out for good behavior. We floated in the pool (me totally naked) and planned on just hanging out with one another. It was to be a good time, even though I didn’t expect any penis action.

So, on that horrible no good night, laying on the guest bed steeped in my rage, there was opportunity. My higher brain functions were generally advising “this too shall pass” but weren’t too terribly in the mood for an in-depth analysis. My lower brain functions — the Lizard — was whispering all kinds of things. I felt the “devil on my shoulder” thing more strongly than ever before. Ideas were popping into my head seemingly from outside my brain.

The Lizard and the potential orgasm it advocated became a kind of entity in the room with me sitting just to my left. It presented a path I could take. A justified path, it argued. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not even close. The penis never even got hard. The Lizard/orgasm entity slithered back into whatever crevice it inhabits all the rest of the time.

Belle and I talked the next morning. We shared our relative positions and gingerly moved forward in the haze of an emotional hangover. Raw and tender and trying not to touch the bits that had yet to scab over.

The next day, I told Belle something that I had assumed was perfectly obvious, but I don’t know I ever said it in so many words. She is the most important thing in the world to me. More important than my own sexual relief. My love for her exceeds my love of orgasm. And it will always be that way. I am hers.

Panty problems

This whole panty thing got kind of out of control. After reading the post about it, Belle related to me that the idea didn’t do anything for her. That’s fine, if a little disappointing. Totally out of left field and, truth be told, it’s not like wearing something like that is a core part of my sexuality or anything. I’m just experimenting. But then she made a point of saying, “I’m not interested in ever seeing you wearing them.”

That made me feel weird and awkward and sat between us like a dead fish for several days. Suddenly, I was embarrassed and worried she’d even see them in my drawer. I was afraid of being judged and found to be somehow wrong. Then, after a negative comment from a follower to a quickly posted image on Twitter, I spiralled into a very foul mood and impulsively deleted the tweet. It’s one thing to hear something like that from your partner. It’s something quite a bit different to be pantie-shamed by a fellow anonymous perv on the internet.

In any event, Belle’s intention wasn’t to be harsh. I could tell by the tone of how she said what she said. It was an honest comment and I’m glad she made it, even though it pained me. My response was also honest, but I wasn’t mad at her for feeling how she feels and I’d rather she not take it back or try to gloss over it or anything. We’ve discussed it and, after, I’m in a better place if only because the issue is out there. It’s not resolved because I don’t know that it can be.

It was surprising to me how quickly my ego destabilized from this little adventure. I’ve been on pretty good ground for a while and haven’t felt the “freakish freaky freak” thing in a long time.  Then, BOOM, there it was. In any event, like I said, we’re past the worst of it and I’m feeling somewhat better now. I still don’t think I could let myself be seen by her in them, though she said incidental observation (like when I was changing for bed or something) wouldn’t bother her. It’s still a tender spot. At least I can bring myself to put them on without feeling self-loathing.

Practically speaking, I’ve worn two pairs now for a day each. I find I like the boy brief cut better than the thong cut (I also got these but haven’t worn them yet). I don’t have a general problem with thong-style underwear and have several pairs. They’re really good for achieving that commando feel while still providing a bit of support for the steel. I think what I like about the boy brief panties is that I could feel the lace on my ass under my jeans. I was often reminded that I was wearing them and that was satisfying. The other styles look good on, but are just like any other underwear once covered by pants. I also like the incredible lightness of lace. They’re there but just barely. A very appealing material for me. I’m wearing the briefs again today without a device because I’m going to an event tonight where there’ll be metal detectors. I was worried the lace would rub uncomfortably over the penis (which is often very sensitive to that kind of thing right after getting out following a long time locked-up), but there’s been no issues so far. I will be posting HNT this Thursday of what that looked like this morning, so beware all panty-hating types (and Belle).

I’m still trying to figure out the appeal in general of panties. I think it’s that I’ve always had a thing for sexy underwear most men wouldn’t wear (a fetish?) and these are just an extreme example of that. There’s no doubt when you see them that these are for men because they have ample pouches cut into them. I don’t feel like I’m wearing women’s underwear at all and still have no desire to do so. But I do like the lacy stuff and more feminine look of these. Weird.

In any event, I’ve picked up two more pairs. A pair of red (because that’s all they had) shorts and a pair of tanga briefs (a cut I’ve never heard of before). We’ll see how those go.

Sexual pillow face

I have mentioned in the past how terribly hot (HAWT, I TELL YOU) I find chastity and denial in an all-male dynamic. Maybe it’s because one part of the pair does not get exactly and specifically what the other does, is required to do exactly what he may crave is done to him, and submits to an act he may wish he could perform himself. Female sexuality, while something I’ve tried to make a special study of, remains a bit of a mysterious black box. I know what inputs will usually result in which outputs, but can’t tell you how the mechanics operate. Male sexuality, though, I get. All the way down. Even more than male-female chastity and denial play, male-male seems to be nearly perfectly a ying-yang type of dynamic. At least to me.

This is why Schnoff’s is my current favorite denial blog (let’s not get too hung up in semantics, but I think of “chastity” as including hardware, though you all and Schnoff are free, of course, to call it whatever you or he wants). I love that he writes about real life and the ups and downs and stuff in between including steamy sex and, I think, he and I are driven by many of the same internal motivations. Obviously, as I’ve said before, we are all special little snowflakes when it comes to our personal sexual profile, but I see a lot of me in him. Don’t make me break out a Venn diagram.

Recently, Schnoffy boy posted several things that’ve resonated with me. Just today he related his and Bear’s July 4th activities and, oh yes, I wish for you to read them because they were niiice. Near the end, there was this bit (emphasis added)…

After, Bear remarked that sometimes he couldn’t tell.

“Tell what?” I asked.

“You are so eager,” he explained. “I sometimes can’t tell where your excitement for your own stuff ends and your excitement for my stuff begins.”

It may need explaining that dog play was Bear’s idea, as a pivot from pony play, and I went along with both ideas eagerly after an initial “wait what now?” reaction of a day or two.

I don’t know any more that where my stuff ends and Bear’s begins is an easy distinction to make, and told him so. My eagerness is real. My desire to please Bear is my stuff, and so dog play becomes my stuff, because it’s his stuff.

Personally, the most rewarding thing my deeply submissive soul finds in essentially permanent denial of my orgasmic release is how it draws Belle’s wants and needs and sexual pleasure so hard against mine that they’re deeply and permanently imprinted there. Like when you sleep funny on the corner of a pillow and wake up with it impressed on your cheek or when you take off tube socks and still see their relief on your calves. When you pull her sexual desires off of mine, you’ll still see them there. Obviously, we’re two people with separate and distinct motivations, but I want very badly to make mine assume as much as possible what is hers so that they’re indistinguishable.

Schnoff related a sizzling frot session in his latest post that I was easily able to relate to even though I’ve never performed the act described. It’s a core tenet of my sexuality that I want very badly to be the vehicle to the sexual pleasure of others. I get my pleasure by giving it to them. That’s only accentuated as I get farther and farther away from my last orgasm (or further and further, if you prefer). Sometimes, the act includes my own direct pleasure, sometimes it’s reflected, but theirs is always my priority.

Or, at least, I want it to be. When I start to feel like I’m getting too selfish or focused on my own stimulation through contact with Belle, I start to feel…bad. Not a good word, that, but the best I can do. Guilty? Some combination. I don’t want it to be about me so when it is it all kind of curdles. There’s a line I can approach (sticking my ass up while sucking her nipples so that she can play with my dangling balls and stuffed device) but anything more overt starts to feel weird (when she ignores the obvious opportunity, that can be just as good for me).

I mention that because Belle’s got into the habit of letting me have some pussy time once a week like clockwork. I’ve found myself focusing on that and thinking on it too hard and becoming expectational of it. Like a dog that’s treated too often and get’s pushy when he’s not given a Scooby snack after he does his business. I haven’t become pushy, but I could feel the sense of entitlement building and didn’t like it.

I shared this with Belle along with the suggestion that she make me earn pussy time. Even if it means I’m not out for weeks or months or only out to give Blue a firm core and then right back in. I don’t want to feel like I’m getting sex for my own sake. Of course, saying that opens up a bit of submissive’s dilemma for me because often she wants to feel like she’s being fucked. So it may feel like it’s just for me, but it’s not. It’s also filling a need she has (literally). I don’t want her to deny herself this pleasure. Maybe she should specifically tell me when I get to fuck her why it’s happening. Either because I’ve been a good rabbit or because she just wants to feel the penis in her. I’m pretty sure I could remain in the right frame of mind if I knew she wanted to feel me inside her and end up approaching it not unlike Schnoff’s frot session.

God, I’m a complicated beast.


I have kind of a well-known thing for underwear. I like ’em colorful and skimpy and even sometimes sheer and see-through. So I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise I also have a thing for lacy stuff. But surprised I am.

This is one of those brain twisting sexual self-discoveries. At least I assume it’s sexual. See, I squick out over sissies. Hard. And the idea of wearing women’s clothing and makeup and stuff does nothing for me. But I just discovered that underwear designed for men using materials and cuts typically used in women’s underwear is…OK. More than OK. Like, distractingly hot. Like, I couldn’t fall asleep last night, it was so hot.

The thing I struggle with right now is that this clothing, which I think of as men’s because it’s got pouches in the crotch, is shown on fucking hot obviously male models, etc., is sold on a site for cross-dressers. And…I’m like…gah! And not the good “gah.” I mean, of course. The underwear looks like panties so why shouldn’t they call them that? And really, isn’t that part of why I like them? I have a black sheer thong I occasionally wear (like today, duh) and if someone were doing our laundry I’m quite sure they’d put it in Belle’s drawer by default. What man would wear such things? It’s a very naughty feeling knowing I’m wearing outrageous underwear over my locked steel chastity device (even the fucking device falls into this secret naughtiness category, if I think about it). Having underwear (panties) that are all lacy and see-through or with a frilly fringe or a ruffled bottom is just…fucking sexy as holy hellfire.

So I bought some. Three pair. (With my allowance, not Belle’s money.) And I’m like…what the fuck?

I have limits. Some of their offerings I am definitely not interested in (but, you know, if it works for you, go for it). Others are…intriguing. Weirdly and oddly. But there it is.

So I don’t know what this means. I don’t know what this makes me (or that it even matters). I don’t know how Belle will react (I hope well). But I do know I want my frilly panties to get here ASAP. That, I know for sure.