Category: Life with Belle

Stuff that really happened to Thumper and/or Belle Fille

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Two more

I forgot two of my New Year’s goals/notresolutions.

First, I’d like to be tied up more. Doesn’t have to be ropes since they’re technical. Could be cuffs and harnesses, etc. Just restrained. There’s all manner of lovely strappy things to accomplish such a goal. Hogties, hobble belts, and various spreader bars. Even awesome-looking shackles.

I think Belle worries about what to do with me once she’s bound me up. Sure, I’d also like to be whipped and otherwise tortured, but she could just leave me. The idea of having my wrists bound to my thighs or even just leaving them cuffed together all night (preferably while wearing a collar, ‘natch) is highly appealing. Or shackling my hands and ankles. Basically, anything where she removes more of my control is too fucking hot.

Yeah, so, I’d like stuff to bind and restrain me plus a lovely harness. Just because I think they’re sexy as hell and I’ve almost got my upper body into a shape that one would look good on me.

Have I mentioned my strappy leather kink? I must’ve. Once or twice.

Second, I want to be in a state where I want to come. Yes, duh, right? But no, not if you think about it. So many guys into denial are into denial (myself included) which means they want to be denied. Where I’m saying I want to be more often is where I want to fucking come all the time and don’t only because she won’t let me. If she said, “Thumper, now!” I’d happily spew forth without reservations.

Case in point. This morning. I was up before her and sofuckinghorny. I wasted some time on the Tumblr (which did nothing to resolve the horny thing) and otherwise ground the steel into the bed and waited for her to wake up. Eventually, she did, and it wasn’t long before she was naked and needing to choose how she’d let me get her off.

She has many options. My fingers, my mouth, the little pink vibrator, the big blue dick, the little white one, and a new addition to her stable: The Vixskin Maverick. It showed up on Friday and is the solution to her wanting to get fucked by a big dick but not necessarily wanting to let me out. Some further backstory…

Belle wanted me in the Steelheart but also wanted to be fucked and, back around Christmas, asked if Blue would work over the device. No. But, I had a thought. The penis fits pretty well in Blue and Belle’s old dildo Mr. Darcy is nearly the same size as me so what if I put Mr. Darcy in the strap-on harness he was bought for and stuck Blue over that? Kind of a sex toy turducken. We gave it a shot.

Didn’t work. Darcy, while about the same size as the penis all around, doesn’t compress the same way inside Blue. What we ended up with is a much fatter and less flexible dildo arrangement. It made her uncomfortable and I had to get her off a different way. Ah, well.

And that led to the arrival of Maverick. I chose the chocolate color because I felt the pinkish-white one looks kinda sickly and pale and the “caramel” one looks like cheap spray tan. The chocolate color is warm and rich. Really lovely. It showed up and as soon as I saw it I thought she’d think it was too big. On paper, it’s the same size as Blue. Seven inches by two. In reality, Maverick has a much bigger and more pronounced head. Also, it looks thicker. I compared the two to each other and found that they were essentially identical in proportions, though. But Maverick’s head. Holy cow. Blue tapers a bit while Maverick stays hefty all the way to its fat, flared helmet.

Funny thing, though, when I showed it to Belle. “Oh, that’s a really good size,” she said immediately. Yes. A perfect size for her, I think.

So back to this morning. Her choice. Fingers, mouth, pink vibrator, big blue dick, big black dick, or little white one. She decided she wanted me out, so it was Blue. Maverick’s christening will need to wait for another day.

After Blue had its way with her (ninety-eight to go, BTW), she let me fuck her. Again, the sensation of being inside her and feeling how much the dildo she thinks is a “really good size” stretches her beyond my ability really fucking clicks with something very deep inside me. The sensation of being second. The subtle and implied humiliation of knowing that she came so well from something so much bigger. Knowing that no matter how hard I fuck her, I’ll never touch the spots touched by her big dildos.

And sweet Jesus, it makes me want to come in her. To spray myself all over the walls that bigger dick pushed beyond my reach. To mark and retake her pussy as mine. It hurts, I want to come so bad. So I told her.

“I want to come in you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“But I do…”

Silence.

Had she said the word, I would’ve done it. Like that. But she didn’t so I didn’t.

Her goal not to let me come once this year: Intact

My goal to want to really a lot: Intact

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Virile

VirileI’m happy to be able to tell you about a new piece of chastity erotica available on Smashwords entitled Virile. I was fortunate enough to have been able to preview a draft and I truly enjoyed it. The premise of the story involves a teacher and a student and a device locked against his will. Fantasy, to be sure, but quite nice.

Beautifully written and sexy as hell. You should check it out. A damned bargain at only $3.00.

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2014

Happy new year, pervs!

I don’t like resolutions. Just don’t like the feel of them. The built-in expectation that many or most will fail. I prefer goals. Things to work towards.

In that spirit, Belle and I discussed our 2014 goals this morning prior to getting it on. First things first. On the orgasm front, she’s reiterated her goal that I should have none. Zero. Donut. She’s on board with my goal for her: 100. That’s not even two a week. No pressure. Totally doable. So, to sum up, the ratio of orgasmic release between the two of us is infinitely weighted in her favor. As it should be.

There were some other goals exchanged. I will continue to work at being the best sub I can be. In whatever way I can. She’s decided she doesn’t want me to ask her every single day how I can serve her. Too much pressure. Now it’ll only be on the weekends. Regardless, this will likely be something I will work on for the rest of my life. There is no perfection in this regard.

Another goal of mine is to get Belle into some ridiculously sexy lingerie. Something with straps and buckles. I really like straps and buckles. Straps connected to stockings and bodices with breasts spilling out. Mmmm. Good stuff. Yeah, that’s a goal.

The goal of Belle taking a boyfriend was discussed, but she’s not interested. One man is enough for her and, at times, too much, so no way she’s going to deal with looking for another. She’s also concerned that she might develop feelings for this other guy and I say of course she would, but there’s feelings and then there’s feelings. But whatever. Moot point.

The last goal was another of mine. I told Belle I really wanted to start getting fucked. Not just by myself, but by another person. My first suggestion was she could do it, but her position on that hasn’t much changed in the past 18 or 20 years so it remains very unlikely. On the other hand, she doesn’t seem to have a problem with me getting a boyfriend/friend that is a boy to do the deed. She’s said in the past that the concept of me being fucked by another guy doesn’t seem too far removed from mastrubation in her mind. It seems as though I have been officially cleared to investigate the options.

The only condition is that I have to remain locked up. As I should be. The penis is Belle’s, not mine and not something I can give to anyone else. So, assuming I go forward with this and she remains comfortable with it, what I have to offer someone is essentially a couple of holes and some hands. No penis.

I admit that I’m both excited and a little scared by the prospect of putting myself out there. I’m sure I’ll have a lot more to say on it in the future.

In the mean time, Belle and I hope you all have a very fine 2014.

Oh, and…uh…ninety-nine to go!

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Frisson

This morning, I babbled like a besotted schoolboy. Embarrassing in retrospect. I mean, all good intentions. Just…wow, what a sap I was.

Belle’s continued to leave me in the Steelheart. Usually, when holidays role around (or any kind of special event like vacataions, etc.) she’ll let me out. We’re out of town for Christmas and I assumed that this would be like every other trip of this type and she’s let me out on the first morning away and not require that I go back in until after we’d been home. I would have been justified in expecting I’d be free and flopping at least through New Year’s and maybe all the way to the Monday afterward.

But not this time. As I said the other day, she’s inclined to leave me in for a while. We had setted into a routine for the past couple of months where she’s let me out on the weekends for a little activity that included pussy time for me. That’s done for now. And the change it’s had on me is apparent.

On Tuesday, I referenced an early post where I laid out my thoughts on the then-new idea that Belle would control how often and in what way I enjoyed orgasm. In it, I said…

There is so much on the web around OD, tease and denial (T&D), and domination and submission (D/s), etc., that is very anti-male. I admit to being new to this scene, so it’s entirely possible what I’m reading is just people staying in character, but I don’t think so. Many sites written by women for women (example) make men out to be little more than sexual animals who can’t be trusted to control their urges and whose sex drives can be harnessed to make them do all manner of things they wouldn’t do otherwise. I’ve even read men on forums regurgitate this POV. Like somehow OD saves them from their inner pigs. (The notable exception, and luckily the site I found very early on in my exploration, is Tickleberry.)

The above line of thought is so alien to me it’s not something I can even pretend to be into. Again, I do not judge anything anyone else is into, but personally, I revel in my maleness. I rejoice in the differences between women and men. The fact that I enjoy sex as much as I do, that it’s as important to me as it is, that I think about it all the fucking time is wonderful. I would never want to abdicate my male prerogative to anyone else, even my beloved Belle Fille.

I was scared of letting go of my “male prerogative.” Yes, I wanted my sex controlled but I also didn’t want to “waste” any of my desire for it. I felt then strongly (and still do when I allow myself) that my desire for sex is a limited natural resource. That something should be done with it when it presented itself and that something was that Belle should let me get her off. I’ve evolved significantly since then.

I still don’t ascribe to any overt anti-male feelings, but I do feel that — at least for me, though I suspect it’s true for a lot of men – that we’re fundamentally selfish beings. It may be genetics or maybe it’s socialization, but easy access to my body and the orgasms that result tends to make me far less attuned to her and her needs. I withdraw and focus on my own interests. The less I come, the easier it is for me to recognize what she needs. On top of that, the more she keeps the penis in the device and the less attention she pays it even then, the more motivated I become in not only recognizing what she needs, but in doing something about it.

This is the mysterious alchemy of my denial. Where the competing and seemingly incompatible forces of my intense background horniness meets with my deep desire to satisfy her. They beget each other. Power each other. The more I have of one, the more I have of the other. Where their hard edges strike, a bright frisson sparks within me that I find simultaneously exhilarating and calming. Warm and loved. And loving. It makes me feel alive. When it’s really working, it’s like that scene in The Wizard of OZ where Dorothy opens the door to her house after it’s fallen from the sky and suddenly sees the world in blazing Technicolor. (It’s not like I haven’t written about this before. You have a blog that’s five years old in which you essentially write about the same thing over and over, you do find yourself walking in your own footsteps more often than not.)

I felt it last night. The frisson. I was laying in bed, Belle was fast asleep, and I was dead tired. But I couldn’t sleep. That’s the dark side to all this. That flame burned so intently that it scared my own sleep away.

For the past several days, I’ve started each of them asking Belle a simple question: How can I serve you today? She’s given me tasks and I’ve tried my best to do each of them for her. She’s left the penis in its cage where the energy radiating from the plutonium decaying in its heart can be put to good use. She’s let me make our sex all about her. I’ve asked that she hold me truly accountable for the things she asks me to do. And that makes me very happy.

In a way, I suppose trying to live as the best service sub I can is a little like being a priest (says the atheist whose first exposure to Catholics was when he married one — and ohbytheway, “service sub” is a phrase I would have run from five years ago). You strive for a goal and sometimes you make it and sometimes you don’t. But you’re dedicated to it and want to do the best you can. That’s how it is with me. I not only want to see the things that will make her happy and her life more enjoyable, I want to be motivated to put my own desires aside so that I act on what I know I need to do. Unintuitively, the more generous she is with me, the less motivated I become. The more I start to expect the generosity. Expectation is the enemy of gratitude and leads to disappointment and resentment.

So yes, what I know now that I didn’t then is orgam denial and femdom and chastity can make at least some men better people. Men like me. I never could have imagined feeling this way. I have had my sex drive harnessed — happily — and now I want the saddle and the crop and the spurs and to be ridden around like a pony. And it’s what I was blubbering on about this morning. I feel so lucky to have a woman like Belle who, while never signing up for anything like what she got in me, has figured out how to adapt and even embrace our dynamic. She’s worked through her own socialization issues and found the difference between my desires and my needs. And I love her so much for it. I am so grateful.

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Size matters

“I wonder if we could use Blue over the Steelheart,” my Belle asked me this morning.

Alas, no, I doubt it would work. Without the stiff penis inside, the penis extender is too floppy and would collapses in on itself when pressure is applied around it. The Steelheart is too short to give it any support. It may also be too fat to easily get up inside there and, even if it was, the contortion that would place on the penis trapped within might be too much to handle.

The point of her question is two-fold. One, Belle’s interested in keeping me locked up more often than I have been recently. Pretty much the only reason I need to regularly get out is to provide Blue the internal structure it needs to be useful to Belle. Since she also said to me this morning that she could see keeping me locked up is good for me, it’s hard to know when she’ll let me out. She does love Blue, so I suspect the next time the penis sees the light it will be to wear Blue.

Which leads to the second point of her question. Belle really likes big dick. She has a hard time being up front with me about this. It’s sweet, really. I don’t think she wants to hurt my feelings. The size of the penis is something I can do nothing about, of course, so if she admits to me she likes them bigger than me, won’t that be terribly damaging to my ego? Well, yes, but I’m OK with that. Truly.

That’s not to say, of course, that I wouldn’t like a bigger dick. Of course I would. And knowing that I’m not big enough to really get her off does burn. Luckily, I’m not only a physical masochist, I’m a psychic one, too. That is, even though I once told her I didn’t want her to demean me, in actual fact, I totally kink on humiliation. If I’m not big enough, I want her to tell me that. I want her to remind me that it’s only because I’m not bigger that she needs something like Blue in the first place.

Our entire marriage, she’s always gone out of her way to tell me how much she liked the penis. During sex, she would just come out and say it. I never asked or prompted. This is in the context of knowing her first husband had a really big dick and now knowing how well she enjoys Blue. So I have to wonder who she was trying to convince. As I said when introducing Blue, I think what’s closer to the truth is that I’m not too small. But that doesn’t mean I’m just right.

So anyway, she should feel free to own what she really likes and also feel free to use that information to tease me. I like that kind of hurt as much as I like feeling the sting of a flogger against my ass. Also, as I’ve often said, I think the purpose of sex is to get her off. It’s primarily a vehicle for her enjoyment. Therefore, knowing that we’re using something that so well achieves that goal makes me very happy.

Getting back to her original question, no, Blue won’t work while I’m locked up, but I’ve found a potential answer. Vixen makes a lovely dildo compatible with a harness called Maverick. It’s proportions are essentially the same as Blue’s: 7″x2″. I showed it to Belle and she asked if they made anything close to my size. Yes, I told her, they did and we had it. We even have a name for it. Mr. Darcy. We bought it about three years or so ago and, I reminded her, she didn’t much like it. And it was pretty much exactly the same size as me. So we’ll be trying Maverick.

Yee-haw!

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Pussyfooting around

Last night started with me rubbing her feet with aromatic lotion and ended with my face in her pussy.

She told me straight away that I wasn’t getting out. I like that kind of certainty. I like when she tells me how it’s going to be and I don’t need to waste any energy thinking about it. I like it when she doesn’t mess around and just tells me things like she’s the boss. Because that’s what she is and it’s sexy to hear her own it.

The foot massage was long and indulgent. I got new foot lotion and it lasted a long time so I just kept going. Can’t say how long it was, but I guess it was close to 45 minutes. She made appreciative little sounds and that made me feel warm and loved.

Before she let me make her come, she fingered the Steelheart and ran her fingers over my balls. The sack got tight as the penis pressed against its confinement. Being so close to her, face to face, breath to breath, and having her tease me that way makes me feel dopey and light-headed. It’s coming up on six months since my last orgasm and the power of tiny little touches is amplified and reamplified by my hormone load.

As she took off her clothes so I could go to work, I leaned back and felt the device’s bite as the straining penis flopped heavily from one side to the other. I hungrily sucked on her tits and ran my fingers around her snatch, teasing her lightly. Getting her juices going.

After rubbing her clit for a few minutes, she asked me if I’d go down on her. That’s cute. Fucking yes, of course I would. Always. And asking makes it sound like I have a choice. I’ll do whatever she wants. Whatever she says. Always.

I licked and lapped over the folds of what feels sometimes like the center of my universe and reached up with my hand to finger her nipples. I had a hard time getting into a position where I could lay on my stomach with a hard locked-up penis crushed between me and the bed. Belle “helped” by reaching her foot down and using her toes to play with my balls and the hard, hard tube while I buried my face in her. She came nicely and I lingered between her legs, breathing deeply on her pheromones.

She fell asleep quickly. Me, not so much. Even after I found it, sleep was fitful. I was preoccupied with being as close to her as possible. With being able to feel some part of her or hold her or just rest my head against her body. I woke up this morning pressed up against her still. I wrapped my arms around her and felt the tube filled with morning erection press between us.

I admitted to her that leaving me in like that during sex was good for me. It was hard to say, not because I didn’t think it was true. I do. All the way down. I can feel that it’s true. But there’s a not inconsequential part of me that’s been spoiled with all the pussy access lately. I wanted out. I wanted to be inside her. I wanted to edge myself right up to the point of orgasm and then stop so I could feel the single surge of ejaculate flow through me and into her. But not being able to do that left me feeling so close to her. So needful of her. So much more devoted to her.

That’s what this is all about, after all.

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Sex talking

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking I need to get your key. I’m thinking I should put it my nightstand at night so I don’t need to get up and get it in the morning. What are you thinking about?”

I couldn’t say. I was thinking that I was excited about getting out. I was also thinking that I always get out. I was thinking that she lets me out no matter what. Whether I deserve it or not.

She got the key and I unlocked the Steelheart and watched that thing happen where more of the penis than should fit in the tube come out of it. I rolled back over and she was naked and I put her nipple in my mouth and started to feel around her body. She felt warm and soft and the penis was very hard.

“How can I make you come today, Belle Fille?”

She purred a little. “I want Blue.”

She didn’t want me to jump right up, though. I could play with her pussy a little before. And I did. Fucking hell, I love her pussy.

“I play with your pussy more than I play with myself.” A lot more.

“Yep.” Said in a well, of course you do tone.

She fingered the penis. Traced it and gave it some tugging squeezes. That simple contact made me dizzy. Such a small thing but so powerful for someone who hardly ever even sees his erection let alone touches it.

Then I got Blue and put it on. It adds so much swaying heft. I can’t believe there are actually guys with dicks this big. With my hand wrapped around it, I couldn’t help but feel the pang of wishing it was me but knowing it wasn’t. Not even close.

She climbed up and fucked it and I fucked her back. There’s so much more intensity in her face and her sounds when she’s got that thing inside her. When she came, it was hard enough that I could feel her clamp down through the layer of stretchy blue fake dick. She gathered herself while laying on me and I raced inside.

After she rolled off, I pulled Blue off and snuggled into her. The penis was pressing hard against her. What if she told me no? What if she said that was it? But it wasn’t. I could go in.

I slipped easily inside her. So easily. Barely filling the void left by the big dick I had been wearing for her. The feeling of her like that does something profound to me. I had to move slowly to avoid coming immediately.

“Do you like Blue?”

“Yes, I love it.”

And I want to hear her say that. To hear her tell me she loves that long fat cock.

While I’m fucking her, we talk. I tell her all I want is for her to be happy. To be the one to make her happy. And that she’s so nice to me. But what I want isn’t important. What I get doesn’t matter. I want to feel that I have no control over what happens. That I don’t deserve to expect anything in return. She asks me if I want her to be mean to me. It’s hard for me to say it while I’m inside her because it feels so good and it’s the only good feeling that comes from the penis, these mornings she lets me fuck her. But she doesn’t have to feel that she needs to be nice to me. I admit yes, I would like her to be mean to me. At least when it comes to sex. I want to be used for her pleasure and only be given my own when she feels I’ve earned it. I should not expect anything. Whatever I get, it’s because she wants me to have it, not because I should get it. Not because I want it. What I want isn’t important. I should focus on her. Getting her off. Making her happy, in whatever way that is.

 

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My invisible closet

Yesterday, I posted about the issues I had with assuming men who say they’re interested in women looking at “gay porn” are closeted gays. There’s just not a straight (ahem) line from one to the other. But that’s yesterday’s topic.

In the post, I said…

If I’m closeted, it’s as…whatever it is I am. I don’t tell people about my sexual stimulants. It’s just not something that comes up and I’m not the kind of guy to wear such a thing on my sleeve (multi-year explicit sex blog to the contrary). Plus, as I’ve said before, I hate the term “bisexual” and abhor using it as a descriptor for who I am.

Then I said…

Some of us don’t want anything more than the same basic rights and privileges enjoyed by everyone else. Some of us think there is no better way to advocate for that than to show through the living of our lives that we’re no different.

And then I said in a comment…

[T]he way to get full acceptance isn’t through names and labels and words that divide us. It’s through living a free and open life and demonstrating through actions that all people are fundamentally the same.

Which is kinda the same thing I said before, but whatever.

In thinking on this, it occurs to me that there’s a fairly gaping and obvious flaw in my approach. I’m not “out” as someone with non-straight proclivities. Therefore, how can I show anything at all about other people similar to me through the living of my life? It’s kind of a Catch-22. I won’t accept the label “bisexual” (though I have used it about myself here in the past as it is convenient shorthand) and I’m already married so how, exactly, can I “come out?” Out as what? Which, of course, is why people invent labels. Yeah, I know.

I don’t care if people know I’m flexible but I’m also not going to drop it on them without context because that’s just weird. I guess the same goes for the kink and submission attributes. I’m not ashamed, but I’m also not interested in being flamboyant about it. If you think about, there are remarkably few opportunities to tell someone about the guy-on-guy action you’ve indulged in where that information would be relevant to the conversation.

I don’t really have an answer for this. I’m just identifying the issue.

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Words aren’t helping

The New York Times this weekend ran a story about an interesting way to divine, as the article’s headline puts it, “How many American men are gay?” The state-by-state social acceptance of homosexuals was cross-referenced against the number of men on Facebook who say they’re interested in men and that was compared to the percentage of Google searches for male gay porn.

First of all, this is fascinating stuff. And it probably does demonstrate the very sad issue of those living in areas where they’re unwelcome due to shallow and outdated ideas of what’s right and wrong. But I do have a fundamental issue with how author of this work perpetuated the myth that human sexuality is a choice between zero and six on the Kinsey scale.

Checking, I see that I haven’t told Facebook what gender I’m interested in. Of course, I’m married and was before Facebook came along and have never had to use it as a facet of my dating life, so why would I? But, were I not married, I wonder what I’d say to it. I’m an ostensibly straight-identified person who has found long-term contentment in a relationship with a woman but am very much interested in men from a sexual perspective. That means my Google history contains some evidence of searches for “gay” porn which would classify me, in the terms of this article, as a closeted gay man. But I’m not. Not even close.

If I’m closeted, it’s as…whatever it is I am. I don’t tell people about my sexual stimulants. It’s just not something that comes up and I’m not the kind of guy to wear such a thing on my sleeve (multi-year explicit sex blog to the contrary). Plus, as I’ve said before, I hate the term “bisexual” and abhor using it as a descriptor for who I am. I am totally open to both genders from a sexual perspective but could never really see myself being able to “settle down” with a man. It always had to be a woman for me. Is that what bisexual means? I don’t think so (and even if I did, I bet I could find a hundred people who disagreed with me). There are a lot of other words out there that try to capture the flexibility of what I am (what I strongly believe all people are to some extent), but I don’t care for any of them. Human sexuality just doesn’t lend itself to tidy classification. The best thing I can think of is still the Kinsey scale. I’m a three with vacillations towards two and four. But even that is only a piece of my sexuality.

As annoying as the Times article is, one from Slate makes me optimistic for the future. In “Does Coming Out Count If You Reject Labels” (yes), we learn that ridiculously scrumptious British Olympic diver Tom Daley recently said he had a boyfriend. Lived with the guy. Felt “so safe” with him but also still found women attractive. Not that he was gay or bi or anything. Just fucking yummy little Tom. Likewise, actress Maria Bello told the world she was in a relationship with a woman after having previously only been with men. Bello dared to say she “would like to consider [herself] a ‘whatever,'” rather than a lesbian or bisexual.

And I’m like…YES. Of course. I totally get that. Before I found Belle, I had been serious with guys from time to time (mostly with one) and that didn’t change who I really was. The biggest issue with me then (and, by extension, my boyfriend) was I had bought into the bullshit paradigm regarding Kinsey zeros and sixes. And it tore me up. It’s remarkably refreshing to see us moving in this post-label direction. When people fuck who they want and reject the adjectives invented by others to categorize and reduce. But, the author in Slate says:

[D]espite the rapid progress on limited issues like marriage, it bears asking whether we are at a point in history where we are advanced enough to dispense with gay solidarity entirely. For better or for worse, the very much unfinished LGBTQ civil rights project involves a certain amount of PR, and every PR campaign needs some buzzwords. Naively imagining that you can remove yourself from that paradigm because gay or bi doesn’t quite fit is a highly privileged act—especially when, as far as I can tell, the only worthwhile thing that can come from a celebrity’s coming out is some small contribution to queer visibility in communities where queer people may not be easily seen beyond the page or screen.

And I say, fuck “gay solidarity.” Why should anyone feel compelled to force themselves into ill-fitting stereotypes? If you’re not fucking gay, don’t call yourself that. If you don’t feel like a bisexual, don’t tell them you are. If that’s not good enough for those at the forefront of the “LGBTQ civil rights project” (holy shit, the “LGBTQ” nonsense shows how stupid all these words are), then screw ’em. Some of us don’t see our sexualities as political statements. Some of us don’t want anything more than the same basic rights and privileges enjoyed by everyone else. Some of us think there is no better way to advocate for that than to show through the living of our lives that we’re no different. And maybe if we’d stop trying to put the multiverse of the human sexual continuum into five or six buckets, we’d be able to see that better.

I’m not a word. I’m a person. Just like Bello and Daley. And just like you.

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Working it

One other time, I had a dream that I had sex with a co-worker. Couldn’t look her in the eye for a week. Then it happened again just a few days ago. Different one this time. Funny thing is, this time around, I couldn’t remember which one it was until she was sitting next to me in a meeting. Then it all came rushing back and I’m quite certain I blushed.

The dream is lost to me. All I remember is she was the aggressor in it. She’s somewhat aggressive in real life, so that figures. It’s still affecting me, too. She came to my desk earlier today to ask my opinion on something and, standing next to me, I felt somewhat…I don’t know. Uncomfortable. Hard to describe. Not bad. Just weird.  My imagination drew suspicions from her movements and closeness, ascribing her dream persona’s motives to her in real life. Silly, but palpable.

Similarly, I was in a client meeting today (the client I’ve been so focused on recently). All men, which is rare. There are a lot of women in my field and they’re usually the majority of any meeting (as they are at my office), but not at this client. Kind of an old boy’s club. Their culture is competitive and the guys I was meeting with were all directors and above and, while being perfectly nice to one another, that competitiveness was always just under the surface. The room was barely big enough for the conference table let alone the nine of us. I found myself very much aware that I was the different one in the room. It didn’t show. I was holding my own, but I felt…again, I don’t know. Disadvantaged? In a room full of women, I can feel energized. My condition only accentuates that. I think they sense it and it works. In a room full of guys, visage aside, I’m likely the beta male. Of course, it’s possible (and even likely) that I’m not the only one there with one face for the public and another for my wife.

In any event, I realize that often the device and my state can feel like a superpower. But today it was the opposite. That which made me different felt like a detraction. Something in the room was my Kryptonite. It set me on edge. I was happy to be out of there.