The other side of denial

Recently, Belle and I took the youngest offspring back to college. She’s a junior now which means she can have a car on campus so we drove the 1,500ish miles with her to get it and her settled in. While there, Belle booked massages for us after a date night on the town.

I’ll tell you right up front, this massage was nothing at all like the other one I talked about here. With regards to inadvertent displays of denial, it was fairly uneventful. Slight chubbing and nothing more. The reason I bring it up is because of what happened prior to the massage. It’s usually been the case when I get massaged that I’m expected to undress in the room where the massage is going happen. In this spa, we were sent to separate locker rooms for stripping down before we donned robes. It was fairly dead in there, but it wasn’t until I was standing there buck naked with her key in the Steelheart’s lock that I realized I was, you know, standing there buck naked in nothing but the Steelheart in a room where, theoretically, someone could just walk in. Luckily, nobody did. But, after I got the device off, a weird thing happened.

As I was putting on the robe, I saw the contents. Not in the perfunctory way I do when swapping devices or cleaning or whatever. It was like I was seeing it for the first time, somehow. And it…didn’t look like it was me. I’ve been thinking about how to say this and when I posted about it on the socials, I said it was something like when one of your arms falls asleep and when you touch it with the other and it feels like someone else’s body. It was like that, but it was all mental. I could see a penis and, since I’m a fan of penises generally, I thought how much I liked the look of it but, very weirdly, it didn’t really register to me as part of my body. It was like I was looking at someone else’s penis.

I was experiencing some kind of disassociation with this thing that used to be such an integral part of my physical experience. It’s been nearly a year and a half since I was given a chance to experience sexual pleasure with it and it’s been locked up essentially all the time for three and a half years (the last time I had a real, free erection was that massage in Mexico at the end of last year) and I know now for certain that it’ll never be used for sex again and it’s like my brain has sort of walled it off from what it considers me.

And that’s not the only thing that makes me think I’m evolving to some new penisless plateau.

Recently, and especially in the last few weeks, I’ve noticed that my urge to fuck Belle is fading away. Not that I don’t want to have sex with her, because I very much do. And not that I don’t want to get into her pussy, because YES, I do. The lingering urge to get into her with the contents, even though she’s told me that’s not happening anymore, has rather dramatically started to recede.

Now, when I initially get to touch her wet snatch with my fingers, I will often audibly moan. The feeling of her slick labia and swollen clit under my fingers feels nearly as intense to me as sliding my erection into her used to. Back then, before we brought enforced denial into our relationship, the erection I’d get while getting her off was anticipatory of an eventuality. Once she started locking me up, it became representative of a lost opportunity for me. The thing I wanted but would not get. Now, it’s nothing more than a sign of how turned on pleasuring her makes me. Mentally and emotionally, it’s the ultimate expression of my submission. But physically, it’s just tightness. And it feels like the door between those earlier representations and feelings and where I am now is closed.

I do still grind it into her as she comes. But not because I’m craving being inside her. I can still remember what that felt like and it still torments me if I let it, but those memories are separate from my current life. Feeling her excitement and pleasure and how her pussy spasms in orgasm. The noises she makes and how her ass writhes into the bed as I tease more and more of it out of her with my fingers or my tongue. That’s it. The goal.

And not just for me, obviously. It’s not uncommon for Belle to totally ignore the device and its contents when we have sex. I feel like she used to very intentionally hold or caress or squeeze my balls while I was getting her off. But now, it seems just as likely that she won’t touch me there at all. She opens herself to my touch and allows the pleasure to wash over her, totally absorbed by it. The contents are left to squeeze by itself in its confinement.

This has made me reevaluate what “denial” actually is. Can I be denied something I’ve been taught to stop expecting and almost stop craving? The thing I think about most — pleasuring her — is not denied me, though access to it is totally under her control. I do not want to orgasm. So if the normal, natural urges of a real man — to fuck, to shoot a load — have left me, can it still be said that I’m being denied those things? Her harder, more severe form of denial has somehow moved me to this post-denial phase.

My desire to be out and fuck and shoot and even my penis are all gone or going, but I’m not sad about it. I don’t mourn their loss. I have other cravings and urges and feelings to replace them. And they feel more natural and right to who I am than pretending I have a cock and am a normal man. My whole life, I was denied that. My true state. Because I had a freely accessible penis and was allowed to play with it and even fuck people and it felt good and I was indulged all that pleasure. Who I was was never allowed to emerge.

I am not supposed to have a penis I can touch. I’m not supposed to fuck anyone. I live to bring pleasure to others. And I achieve my own pleasure through theirs. Orgasm for me now means a temporary death to all that. To who and what I am.

The only thing I’m being denied is an opportunity to lose, if only temporarily, myself in a brief moment of intense sensation that I will immediately know as it’s happening is wrong for me.

No great loss.

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