Molecule by molecule

As of this morning, and according to my time tracking app, it has been 1,234 days since I was outside some kind of enforced denial device for a period longer than an a handful of hours. I was unlocked at about 10:00 PM on March 4, 2020, and went back in at about 7:00 PM on March 6th. I don’t even remember what that was about but I assume it was due to some kind of irritation from the Evotion 8 I was wearing at the time. Since March 6, 2020, I have been in one device or another for 99% of the time.

That’s for context.

I am not, of course, the only guy who’s locked up like that. While still a minority of all locked men (based on my unscientific surveil of followers and followees on the Hellsite), there are guys out there who’ve been locked up even longer than me. I’m not claiming some kind of record. But I also know that while it seems second nature to me, most guys who are locked up aren’t locked up like I am. And I think about those guys who are locked up for a week or two or a month at time and who then get out and aren’t expected or told to rush back in. I wonder how many of them will keep living that way. And also how many will eventually end up like me. I know two things. One, the person holding the key has a lot to do with deciding that (obvs), but also, two, the gravitational pull of being locked up is very strong.

I have heard these stories from others. I have lived that story. You lock up for a few days. Then it’s on Sunday through Friday. Then it’s over a weekend too and it’s been two weeks. Then it turns into a month. Then two, three, a year, 1,234 days. We locked penis-havers are complicit in this. The longer we’re locked the longer we want to be locked. The longer we’re denied, the longer we want to be denied. As if our pre-locked sexuality is slowly replaced, molecule by molecule, like a piece of wood being petrified, until it’s transformed into something else entirely. Something that our previous selves would have never understood.

I’ve written before about this change of mindset. (I mean, duh. Is there anything I write about that I haven’t written about before?) The way we stop associating and identifying with what’s inside the device. We become separate from it. Not literally. It’s still on us. It’s still in there. Physically attached, but emotionally separate. Emotionally detached. Alienated. Removed.

I think this is why when I see other guys on places like the Hellsite jacking off and shooting their loads that I have a hard time thinking of myself as the same species as them. The guys with the cocks using them on the holes of others for their own pleasure. I used to aspire to be one of them. I might even have assumed I was. But now I know otherwise. What I am now is what I always was meant to be. What Belle has helped me become.

I used to celebrate the contents. It defined me. Now I feel derision towards it. It’s simple urges and ridiculous preening.

Our transformations have been simultaneous. It has no job now. No purpose. It’s not fit for the thing it was designed to do. It’s useless. It’s needy. I feel like I share my body with this other being with its own motivations and desires and all I can do is feel sorry for it. Because it’s never going to get what it wants. Not anymore. Those days are behind both of us. It’s become pathetic and deserves nothing more than it gets now which is nothing.

Yeah, so WOW, huh? I don’t think all locked up guys feel this way. Not by a long shot. But I know some do. Are all locked up guys capable of ending up here? Or no? If they’re left that way forever, will they find themselves transformed like I’ve been? I suspect a lot of guys who are locked up less than me might recoil at what I’m describing. But there are others who read what I’ve said and find themselves hard (or tight) as fuck. And maybe that scares them a little. I dunno. Embrace it.

This post didn’t end up where I thought it would, though I can’t say I really had a plan. Sometimes, the words just fall out of the my fingertips in the order they do and even I’m surprised. Just call me ThumperGPT, I guess. But don’t call the contents anything else than what it is: contents. Packed away and stored with the other bric-a-brac and souvenirs.