I can’t say

I’m not allowed to tell her what I want out loud. To put words to my desire. My craving. So I scream it in my head. With each thrust into her, “Let me come!” With my eyes, “PLEASE.”

She smiles back at me. 

I whimper. 


I can say it now so I do.

“No you don’t. Thanks for the fuck, though. It was a good one.”

The Father, the Son, and the semi-automatic assault rifle

I’ve been struggling with what to say about Orlando. I have so much sadness but it’s mixed with so much anger that I can’t tell them apart. They taste the same in my mouth. I need a word for that. A word that means, “sorrowful rage.”

I hear this massacre isn’t an LGBTQ thing. It’s about mental illness or religious radicalism or easy access to firearms in a country awash in them, but it could have happened anywhere. A movie theater or a coffee house or a sports arena. It’s distasteful for gays to make this about them. But it didn’t happen in any of those places. It happened in a gay nightclub because it was a gay nightclub. Of course, this event is about mental illness and religious radicalism and too many guns, but it’s also very much about being LGBTQ. The hatred for LGBTQ people is the thread that ties all those other things together in this case. No, not thread. Rainbow ribbon.

The shooter, it is now reported, frequented the club and was active on gay hook-up apps like Grindr. He liked the boys and liked dick. Maybe not to the exclusion of women, but he was definitely on the Kinsey scale above a one. And he hated himself for it. Hated himself so much. Why? Where does that come from? My kids don’t hate gay people. They don’t fear them. One of my kids identifies as bisexual and does so in a very open and heathy way. Why are my kids well-adjusted about sexuality while the shooter in Orlando was as unadjusted as possible?


His faith teaches that gays are an abomination. Subhuman. He was raised being told that by his clergy and his dad. By his friends. But it’s what he was. This kind of cognitive dissonance will make some people kill themselves. Some others will live sad, stunted, hateful lives. Others, the fortunate few, will come out from under the spell and build a life of freedom from religious bullshit filled with love and friends. A few buy assault rifles and walk into gay nightclubs to kill as many people they can. Literally killing the part of them they’ve been taught to hate. To abhor. There is a grim logic in their actions.

Impossibly, I find myself feeling sorry for the shooter. For the pain he endured and the pain he caused as a result. I didn’t think it possible. I don’t know where it comes from. But there it is. The fact that he clumsily associated himself with those who personify on earth the extreme intolerance for things like homosexuality was nothing more than an attempt to find a fire hot enough to burn it out of himself. But this isn’t about ISIS. They’re a bit player in the drama and are accidentally benefiting from the kind of publicity they crave.

So I am not actually mad at the shooter. But I am mad. Furious. Seething. At who?

On Saturday, Mike Huckabee and those like him, if asked, would have told you gay people are going to burn in hell for their perversion. That their push for marriage equity would destroy the family and a trans person’s need to urinate  would lead to children being molested and woman attacked. On Sunday, though, he was praying for them as victims. In the fucked up algebra of a far-right shitbag, the only thing that’s worse than a club full of happy faggots is a radicalized Muslim shooting at them. Good to know.

While the good governor was running for US President last year, he and fellow governor Bobby Jindal and Senator Ted Cruz shared a stage with a man named Kevin Swanson who literally called for gays to be put to death. Today. In America. He didn’t say it at some fuzzy distant time. He said it that fucking day just before inviting the three of them onstage to share in the limelight. And they just let him. Because political points are worth more than the lives of LGBTQ people. Because pandering to a hateful audience of zealots, calling for innocent people to be killed for how they were born, is the course of action most expedient to gain their support.

And then these sons of bitches have the fucking nerve to PRAY for the victims. The shooter was Muslim, but he was playing their tune. And so they prayed. For the victims. The ones they either explicitly or implicitly called for. Mike gets the spotlight here, but he’s hardly alone. Any moralistic asshole in government who grovels for votes and campaign contributions from radical Christians and then decries the very acts their benefactors called for the day before is a sad, disgusting son of a bitch. The blood of the victims in Orlando is on their hands. It’s on their clothes and fills their shoes. It’s soaked through their very souls.

And it’s not a fringe thing with the Christians. Today, Pat Robertson on The 700 Club said, “The left is having a dilemma of major proportions and I think for those of us who disagree with some of their policies, the best thing to do is to sit on the sidelines and let them kill themselves.” Someone’s going to need to give me a decoder ring or something because I can’t tell the radical Christians from the supposed “normal” ones.

But, you might say to me, I’m a Christian. I’m not like that. We’re not all radical nut jobs. Problem is, as a person with many Christian friends and who’s active on social media, I never see one of them calling these bastards out. I never see them say they’re perverting the word of Christ. I see Muslims dragged out before cameras every time one of theirs loses his shit or ISIS or whoever bombs a plane or shoots a passerby. That’s expected and required, though many non-Muslims will still try and frame Islam as a religion of hate and violence. As if their holy hands are clean, which they are not. Not even a little. But the only time my Christian friends come out and say anything is when they’re afraid of being lumped in with those who are damaging their holy brand. And they do it without any self-awareness that it’s the exact same fucking thing they do to Muslims every goddamned day.

Jon Stewart once said, “Religion. It’s given people hope in a world torn apart by religion.” And we laughed. But it’s true. It’s fucking crystal truth. Our love of imaginary sky friends and the things we invented for them to say outweighs our own humanity. Our human decency. Our fear of death causes us to make a deal with the proverbial devil to despise and distrust and dehumanize others whose holy texts tell them to hate and distrust and do violence in only slightly different ways. I’m sick to death of it. Almost literally to death. Had I been in that nightclub, it could have meant my death.

There are 49 dead people in Orlando who were in their safe place. The place where they could be themselves and celebrate that and each other. And a religious nut job came in and slaughtered them. And he did it for his god. The same way Pat Robertson and Kevin Swanson think it should happen. The very same. They are the same.

Controlling the denial

My goodness, but we kinky folk like to define things, don’t we? I wrote about May’s stats and that triggered Charmer to write about whether she and Snake are doing orgasm denial or orgasm control. I suppose the terms are used interchangeably by a lot of people and I probably used them that way, too, at least at first. I now think a couple of things on the subject.

First up, it kinds of depends on one’s point of view. In my case, I’m being denied when Belle has me locked up but I’m also controlling myself when she lets me fuck her or otherwise fiddle with the penis absent permission to come. From her perspective, she’s controlling me when I’m locked up and denying me what millions of years of evolution is pounding away at me to do when the penis is inside her. So, looked at that way, control and deny are yin and yang-ish.

But can I be really denied something I don’t want in the first place? In that case, it’s all control, right? Pure willpower over the autonomic response from having the penis in a warm, wet place and pushing it in and out. Thing is, my higher brain may be able to sit in its wingback chair donned in a smoking jacket, snifter of brandy in hand, and have a William F. Bucklyesque cerebral discourse on the subject but my lower brain — my lizard brain — only wants one thing. And it’s all my higher brain can do sometimes to ride that lizard and keep it in check. So absolutely, lower lizard is denied what he wants through the control of Mr. Buckley upstairs.

I don’t know about other guys, but it’s that push and pull between the two parts of my brain where I really get off on denial. It’s like surfing, in a way. Needing to maintain balance and poise while constantly judging and compensating for this wild force of nature. The feeling of your toes hanging over the board and the wind in your face as you skate the edge of failure while riding that sucker all the way in. That, in and of itself, is a kind of energy altogether different from fucking and coming. Yes, absolutely, coming is wonderful. But sitting in that pure space between desire and objective while waiting for someone to tell you what happens next. The lack of control over one of the most basic human urges. That’s the stuff.

Her denial depends on my control. Her control over me leads to my denial.


This morning was different. It started out well with the fingers in the pussy and the nipples in the mouth and, thanks to a kid-free house, Belle yelling her heart out as she came. Then I got to fuck, but all her vocalization had left me right on the edge from the get go. I found myself immediately in that space between wanting it and getting it and was trying to surf right down that pipe and was doing a fairly good job. Minimal leakage, but lots of starting and stopping.

But then she stuck her tongue in my mouth. And…I don’t know. I can’t tell you what happened. It was like her tongue, once it was past my lips, was ticking the penis directly. The pipe started to collapse and I held the penis stock-still in an attempt to keep things going, but her tongue wouldn’t stop. I wasn’t fucking her, but I started shooting inside her. The pipe crashed down and my board went up over my head and I may have bumped into a shark, I don’t know.

It was a really weird orgasm. At first, I thought maybe it was ruined. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing so she didn’t know what was going on. Then I felt the prolactin hit my brain in three beats of my heart. Like someone had injected me with it. BLAM. Went down like a sack of bricks and was quickly in sleepy-bye land. There was no explosion of dopamine that usually goes with orgasm so it didn’t feel like one when it happened, but I was absolutely post-orgasmic once my load was drained.

Siting here now, I don’t really feel like I came. I’m still pretty horny. Easily turned on. But also kind of grumpy. I can tell my temper is shorter than usual. Part of it is being annoyed at myself for kinda coming, but it’s more than that. Hard to explain. Brain chemistry is tricky, I guess.

Whatever, that’s what happens when the control fails. The denial ends. You can’t have one without the other.

Give and take

She told me it was time, so I climbed between her legs. She took the hard shaft in her hand and, as usual, placed its leaky tip against the lips of her freshly orgasmed pussy. I tilted my hips a bit and felt it. That feeling. Of warm, wet, soft envelopment. Not confinement. Not hard steel. The feeling that makes my eyes roll back. She made a little sound of pleasure.

I left it right there for a moment, then pulled it out until I felt her lips slip past the sensitive flare of the penis, then pushed it back. Just about a third. In and out. In and out. Not too much. Not yet. God, I wanted it all in there. I wanted more than I had inside her. I wanted to feel every bit of her pussy push back against me, but that’s not something the penis can do on its best day and, if I were to try, it would be more about what I wanted and less about my job. She likes to be fucked. She likes to feel a hard man inside her. She wants to feel him take his pleasure from her pussy, but were I to do that the whole thing would be over too quickly. I might even come.

I fuck her for her when she lets me. It’s like a dance. A performance. For her benefit. I pretend to be a man concerned only with his own ends because that’s what she wants to feel. If I forget myself and become the part I’m playing, I lose my control. I can’t lose control.

I shift my weight forward and feel her pussy grip the penis about two-thirds up. I wrap my arm over her shoulder and behind her head. She brings her hand up (the one that put the penis in the spot she wanted it) and feels my bicep. I flex it hard as part of the dance. She purrs.

Her breathing is pronoucned in my ear. Her eyes are closed and she’s enjoying the feeling of being penetrated by a real hard shaft. I turn my head a little to the right and put her nipple in my mouth. I lick and suck it while pushing in a little deeper. I quicken my pace. Won’t last too long at this speed, but I know my limits. I know when to stop. In and out. In and out…

Right there.

I freeze. A hot shot of fluid flexes out of me and into her. Another. Ejaculation without orgasm. I wait a moment. Let the urge drain away. That’s it. Push it in a little. Pull it out a little. The orgasm, which was so close, now is far away. I can get back to my job. I won’t get close to coming again.

The consistency of her snatch has changed. It’s super wet and slippery with the added ejaculate. I fuck through it and pretend it’s not my mess. That she’s already been taken and these are his sloppy seconds. The penis, if flagging at all, regains its strength. Full pressurization.

Now the penis is fully inside her. I’m fucking her deep – well, as deep as I can – trying to hit her cervix. Push it in, pull it out a centimeter, push it in, pull it out a centimeter. Her nipple is back in my mouth. She’s liking this. The penis is how she likes it. The fucking is how she likes it. We both pretend like I’ll come in a minute. But I won’t. I just keep fucking and sucking. I keep giving her what she wants. And she keeps taking it.

May Metrics

We’re in June now so that means another month is in the books and another post in my metrics tracking project is at hand. At the end of April, I had been locked into a chastity device 70% of the time. In May, that year-to-date percentage increased slightly to 71%.

imageThe Steelheart remains by far Belle’s most-used device and accounted for two-thirds of the time I was secured in May. The Holy Trainer is on the charts for the first time this year making up the balance of the time. I wore it for about a week and a half leading up to a trip the two of us made to DC. I needed something that would pass through security, though she left me unlocked throughout the trip (accounting for the lion share of the 24% of May I was unlocked).

She let me come two more times in May bringing my total number of orgasms on the year to eleven. She didn’t think she was letting me come that much but, after seeing the list, I think was a little surprised at how often it’s happened. Belle isn’t planning on letting come again until at least August when she sees TOG. At the current rate, I’m on track to come 26 times in 2016 (which seems like a metric shit ton of coming to me), but if I don’t come again until late summer, the trend will be towards 18. Even that seems like a lot based on past experience, but Belle decides and all I’m doing is tracking, not lobbying.

I was planning a trip this month which could have led to being unlocked for about a week, but work is conspiring against that opportunity so I expect June may end up looking a lot like January during which I was locked up 94% of the time.