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Brain droppings

I’m going to call the guy I see every Monday to talk about my brain n’ stuff Obi-wan because I have to call him something. I’ve been seeing Obi-wan for about a month now. Four visits, I think. He has some interesting theories about my life.

First, he likens my blogging to living on a reality TV show. No, he doesn’t know nor has he asked for the URL and he doesn’t know specifically what I write about, only that it’s about my sex life and deals with some specific kinds of kinky behavior and my submissiveness. I have told him how many people wander by to read my words on a daily basis and he knows the site has developed into a kind of resource for the things I write about.

In any event, he mentioned something called the Hawthorne effect which is a term I hadn’t heard before. Basically, the act of observing someone changes their behavior. I am definitely being observed here, though I entirely control that observation by selectively choosing what to write. I do think there’s something to his observation that the act of writing the blog has certainly created some of the things I’ve written about. Thing is, if I spend too much time thinking about that my brain ends up looking like a snake eating its own tail. There’s an Inception joke in here somewhere, but I’m too addled to come up with it at the moment.

So yeah, I do control the observation but I can’t control the interpretation of that observation by you readers. This was made clear when Drew showed up and I wrote about the relationship that followed. Even though I explained how that all came into being and Belle’s role in opening our relationship, there were people who commented who clearly didn’t understand what was going on. Either through ignorance or choice. Then, because I allow comments and feedback, they were able to share their sometimes hateful and misguided (though, to be charitable, perhaps well-meaning) thoughts and opinions. Then I, in turn, had to choose to ignore or respond, but in any case, those comments affected my future behavior and choices. It made me feel defensive and act defensively even and contributed to my angst since I knew there were all these judging eyes out there waiting for the doom and failure they predicted. Sure, there was also a lot of support, but that’s not how this works. I only really focused on the dark side.

This, I think, is a contributing factor to my anxiety. At least, it helped juice it up once it developed. Wrapping my head around that fact kept me from posting here for a while. It makes posting this more difficult.

The other thing Obi-wan has zeroed in on is what he calls my closeted existence. I used the word “compartmentalized” but he says closeted and since a closet is a compartment I choose not to argue the point. He’s right. I do live a closeted life.

I have my family, my job, my external interests and organizations, my sexuality, my submissiveness, my relationship model, and the secrets I keep in my pants. To me, those are all different worlds that intersect in different ways depending on who I’m interacting with at any particular moment. Only Belle exists in all those worlds. Frodo, one of my oldest friends, does too to a somewhat lesser extent. Drew is also privy to most of those compartments, but since I don’t live with and see either of them daily like I do Belle, she’s the fulcrum over which all my worlds balance.

I noticed most acutely how these compartments eat at me when it comes to Drew. When I’m fully engaged with my relationship with him, I feel very far way from other parts of my life like my job. When I become more engaged with those other things, Drew feels farther away. I can’t seem to be able to have all these worlds work together. I can’t be fully engaged in everything at the same time. This isn’t a time thing. It’s a mental bandwidth thing. An emotional bandwidth thing. The farther away I am from any of those compartments emotionally, the greater my guilt and anxiety.

Drew was here at the end of this past week. I had been feeling pretty good, emotionally, and was really engaged at the job and in the other groups I belong to and all that was totally at his expense. As his visit drew nearer, I felt twinges of anxiety that I was mostly able to bat away. Then he was here and I felt like I was walking a tightrope over an alligator tank for two days. And now it’s the weekend after his visit and here I am unable to sleep and writing for all you instead of taking advantage of falling ahead’s extra hour. Not, I don’t think, a coincidence.

Obi-wan thinks living with my various compartments is the source of my anxiety. That dealing with that anxiety exhausts me and leads to my depression. He’s asked me to imagine if there were no compartments. If everyone in all aspects of my life knew about all the other aspects. That I was bisexual and in an open relationship and kinky and all that.

It’s difficult for me to do that. I’ve always been able to skate along on bisexuality’s chameleon-like qualities. I’m a heteroromantic bisexual so can disappear into straight life. I have no reason to “come out.” If you’re monosexual (straight or gay), you need to come out to live your life. If you’re bisexual, you have the option of rounding yourself off one way or the other. And I have. And now I don’t know how I’d even describe it to someone. Or explain why I was doing it. Why does anyone need to know about my sexuality? It seems like I’d be telling them something perhaps they don’t want to know and have the right not to know since, after all, I’m not coming out so I can be with the person I need to be with to be happy. I’m already with that person. So why talk about it?

I’m obviously kinda processing this out loud. I’m also getting pretty tired and hope I’ll be able to sleep a few hours. Who knows. Whatever the case, I’m going to proof this then post it then try and sleep. Do me a favor and carefully consider any comment you decide to leave. Remember you don’t know the whole story. You don’t know the whole me. Don’t try and be Obi-wan. Don’t try and tell me the solution to my problems. Chances are, you’d just be pulling something out of your ass (and not in the fun way). I appreciate support, of course, but I pay a guy to psychoanalyze me. Leave that to him.

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Be your damned self

Reader Andrew commented on my last post:

This may be a personal question, but during any of this have you wanted to hide your bisexuality or end the Drew relationship out of a way to feel “normal” before realizing that those are just part of the new normal? I ask, well, because I tend to shun my bi side and I am trying to stop that.

I’ll take those in reverse order.

You cannot “shun” your bisexuality. You shouldn’t even try. If you don’t want or can’t act out on your desires, at least accept them. Trying to shove them down deep and ignoring them is a recipe for disaster.

I’ve not wanted to do that myself at all, not for a long time and certainly not recently. My attraction to each end of the gender spectrum waxes and wanes over time and when I’m feeling especially anxious or depressed, I find I’m drawn even closer to Belle since she’s the stabilizing force in my life. Her and my family. That means I’m less attracted to men, but it doesn’t mean I’m not bisexual. I know how I work by now.

Regarding Drew, as I’ve said, he’s gotten the short end of the stick. I withdraw from those all around me and he’s in that group. My waning attraction to men also impacts my relationship with him. It can be a challenge to give him the attention he wants or perhaps should expect, but again, that’s my problem with everyone when I’m feeling bad.

I try not to focus on “normal” even though I ended my last post talking about it. I am who I am, physically and emotionally and mentally, and that’s all good. I actually like who I am with regard to my sexuality. I find my bisexuality to be a bit of a superpower. I’d never want to give it up or see it go away forever. I am grateful I have the opportunity from Belle to engage others outside my marriage. I feel that’s a benefit and in no way a bad thing. To be clear, my issues with anxiety and depression are not based on any angst or guilt regarding my love and sex life. Anxiety attaches to them, but that’s not where it’s coming from.

So anyway, be your damned self. I am and I like it.

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The settled unsettled

I recently read a news item about a guy with no penis giving great sex advice on Reddit. It may or may not be true because, you know, the internet but what he’s saying sounds real to me, a person who still has a penis but rarely if ever uses it to pleasure his partners.

Belle used to prefer achieving orgasm from being fucked. She needed to be on top controlling angle of penetration, depth, speed, etc., while I concentrated on her nipples. Most women, from what I understand, actually can’t come this way. They need clitoral stimulation instead of or in addition to penetration, but it was how Belle got off. That was then. Now, thanks to the fact that I often have a difficult time keeping my own orgasm at bay long enough for her to get there and, more often than not, I’m locked up, we’ve resorted to fingers and lips and tongues to get the job done. The other day, we tried the old way and she just couldn’t get off. My denial and chastity has retrained her pussy to like it better when the penis isn’t inside her.

This weekend was a good example of how things work now. Saturday she asked if I’d go down on her which I always find funny because, YES, I am always down to go down if that’s what she wants. I’d do it fucking daily if she’d let me. I like nothing more than when she sits on my face and grinds away on my mouth to her heart’s (or whatever’s) delight. It’s been a while since I was able to really tuck in so, once she was sated, I nuzzled into her pussy and savored everything about it. She let me fuck her after and she was incredibly wet and open, almost as though she had already fucked someone else.

The next morning, she was taking a while to get off from my fingers and then the vibrator. She tends to get self-conscious when this happens though I told her I didn’t care how long it took. Getting her off is my sex. I crave it. Her moaning and squirming and the feel of her wet pussy and her hard nipples in my mouth. I’m wired to enjoy her enjoyment. So as long she’s liking what I’m doing, I’m happy to do it forever. After a bit, she did come and it was one of those orgasms that starts low and slow and builds to explosion.

So yeah, you can have amazing sex without a penis. I’ve had the best sex of my life keeping the one I was born with locked in a steel tube. Penises may be designed for one thing, but that thing can be had in so many other ways if you’re willing to try and find them.

So you might think this is all well and good and boy haven’t Thumper and Belle found the Promised Land. At times, I think that’s right, but the issues I’ve been having with my stupid brain lately have left me feeling not so confident. As I’ve written about recently, the darned dent has, at times, become a very large issue for me. Depression and anxiety are not logical things so there’s no need to unravel the illogic of how this has left me feeling at times, but something what is at worst a cosmetic issue has sort of driven a spike down into the heart of what I consider a key element of my sexuality. It makes me question the last seven years of my life and the kind of sex I like and who I think I am. That’s scary stuff.

To be clear, there is nothing functionally wrong with me. The penis works exactly as it always has, it just feels and looks a little different. Why, if denial and chastity have given me such real contentment, should this be a problem? When I’m feeling good I convince myself it’s not a problem. But I’m not always feeling good.

I thought this was settled for me.

Chastity and denial are just as much a commitment to Belle as my marriage vows were so it’s fitting that the two pieces of metal I wear as a result of both should leave me similarly marked. I feel just as weird when either of them are absent. I can’t imagine what life would be like without them and have no intention of finding out.

The dent on my finger doesn’t matter since the ring that made it is nearly always covering it up. The dent on the penis is only apparent when Belle wants it to be. And in those times, it’s a reminder to us both of how my commitment to her has left me altered, inside and out.

I am surprised to find myself bothered by the dent at all. I used to think I had moved on from being so centered on the penis. To really accepting that I am not the kind of man who measures his worth by the length of thing between his legs. In fact, I’m not really the kind of man who thinks his penis is all that important. It is not central to my sexuality. If anything, its absence is. It’s not critical to my sexual pleasure. Or Belle’s. I’ve become so used to it being a deadened, weighty, shiny steel tube that only feels pressure when I get turned on or the occasional pinch from inside. The Steelheart is a really significant part of who I am. Of who I imagine myself to be. I am it and it is me. I suppose it’s no surprise that to have all that challenged would freak me out. It’s why I didn’t want to be locked up when Belle was gone a few weeks ago. It’s why I was not enthusiastic in putting it back on yesterday morning.

I’ve been writing this blog for seven years yesterday. Seven years discovering and learning about who I am. About how I’m different. I hate that these feelings have put that on a shaky table. I will never be normal again, but I wasn’t ever normal before. Not for a single day of my life. I am how I should be, dent and all.

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Running from it

I can sort of track my recent descent into funkiness as starting around the time I got back from Boston. While there, I went for a run and got a little lost because they don’t know how to lay roads and ended up having to run up a big set of stairs to get to a bridge to get back to our hotel. I’m pretty sure that’s when I tweaked my knee.

As is usually the case, little injuries like that flare into larger ones and after I ran when I got home (ignoring the tweaky knee because I’m stupid), it hurt enough that I had to stop running. I even had a hard time just walking up stairs. Fucker hurt. That led to several weeks of no running at all and that’s when my mental state went from its usual OKness to pretty bad.

The low point was last week and into the start of this one. But in that time, I’ve run five times and gone about 14 miles and my knee hasn’t hurt hardly at all. And each day, I’ve felt better. Yesterday and today (I ran this morning), I feel really good. The stuff I’m dealing with is still back there. Lurking. I can hear it shuffling around in the shadows. But it’s not in front of me. It’s under control.

As I was pondering the affect running was having on me, an article popped up on my Facebook feed from the New York Times called “Homing In on the Source of Runner’s High.”

[E]ndorphins may be unfairly hogging the credit for making workouts enjoyable, according to an enlightening new experiment with animals. The findings suggest that endorphins have little to do with runner’s high. Instead, that euphoric feeling may be the product of a completely different but oddly familiar substance — the body’s own endocannabinoids, the chemicals that, like the cannabinoids in marijuana, lighten mood.

Apparently, endorphins are too big to get through the blood-brain barrier but these homemade cannabinoids aren’t. In lab studies on mice, it seems to make them less anxious.

Huh.

On the other hand, my improvement in mood also coincides with writing two posts about it here and having my first visit with a therapist, so I don’t know if I can attribute the difference entirely to my endocannabinoids production, but it really does feel like running, while not solving my problems, goes a long way towards keeping them manageable. I’m going to start paying a lot more attention to the relationship between my cardio routines and my mood from here on out.

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Moody 2

Drew asked me if publishing my post yesterday made me feel any better. I have to say…no. It didn’t. No offense. I thought that maybe it would have, but no such luck.

In fact, last night was especially bad. Since Belle’s was gone for most of last week, I really wanted to be with her. Just be with her. But kids have extracurricular activities and she has work and it just didn’t come together until later in the evening. Going to sleep, it was all good. We talked a little. She read the post. She asked a few questions then she turned away from me and I snuggled into her and nearly fell asleep. I can’t really sleep spooned into her, so I had to flip over and that kind of woke me up. Then I laid there and the pillow felt weird and the covers were too warm and I woke more and more until I was fully awake. It wasn’t especially late, but I could only feel sleep moving away from me.

There’s this state I want to get to when trying to fall asleep where my thoughts get all thready and start to curl into themselves. It’s hard to describe, but when that happens I know I’m heading towards sleep. When they don’t, I’m not. When they just kind of flow around and stay pretty linear. Then, in my current condition, they take a turn towards a topic that’s stressing me out or a scenario that’s unlikely but also very stressful and that makes my heart start to thump and that makes me even more awake and pushes sleep further down. Then there’s that moment. When I realize I’m not falling asleep and am unlikely to do so soon. Like a little switch flips inside me and I know I’ll be up for hours. Then that freaks me out on top of all the rest.

About an hour and half after first trying to sleep, I took a Unisom. Those usually work well, but my anxiety fought back. About two hours later, I was totally under the influence of the pill but not asleep. I was dizzy and felt weird. I was, indeed, very sleepy but totally unable to close the deal. That woke Belle up. Waking her up made me feel worse, though she did her best to comfort me. I felt so damned frustrated. And angry. Mad that I didn’t feel like I had control over myself and couldn’t pull my shit together. Mad that I wanted to sleep so badly but couldn’t. Mad at the whole fucked up enchilada of my emotions lately. I ended up crying hard. The kind where you don’t make much noise and can’t breath between jags. Not from sadness. From frustration and anger. From hating how I feel. The only upside is, it tired me out and I did fall asleep shortly afterward.

These issues are not new. If I think about it, I feel as though I’ve been dealing with elements of whatever this is for years. Slowly feeling motivation and confidence ebb away and being unable to complete tasks. Having ideas for things that would have energized me in the past now just demoralize me since I can’t seem to raise the energy to do them. Setting myself up for more pain by making commitments with the idea that it alone would force me to act when all it did was multiply the anxiety over being unable to do so by about 100. None of this is new. It’s just worse now than ever. It’s forced itself into nearly everything I do or think about.

In the comments to my last post, there were some who might have misunderstood my reticence around writing posts like this. It’s not that I think they shouldn’t be written, it’s that I have a particularly difficult time writing them about myself. There’s still a healthy-sized part of me convinced my issues are not “mental health” related and are more about just generally sucking at life. Also, with regard to Drew, clearly I’m not in the best place to be dealing with some of the complications that come from having a multifaceted relationship structure. It’s sometimes a challenge for me to engage with him, but that’s not his fault. It’s just where I am right now.

I don’t know what to expect from tomorrow’s visit to the shrink. I need to temper my expectations that anything can change in the short term. But, it’s a step. Steps are good.

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Moody

I admit up front I’m not a fan of the type of blog posts I’m about to write. It’s not that I have a problem with them per se, nor do I think they shouldn’t be written by others, but it must be my mother’s stoic Nebraskan upbringing that makes me wince at the thought of writing one myself. I come from the kind of people who don’t talk about their problems and just suck whatever it is bothering them up.

Even now, having just coughed up that first paragraph, I can feel a weight come down on me and an overriding urge to click into another tab to find a distraction so I can stop doing this. I can say (and show) a lot about myself, but some things are more of a challenge than others.

I’ve mentioned before my issues with anxiety. I think I have problems of a larger significance than just that. I think I’m also depressed. But it doesn’t feel like what I think depression is. My image of depression is sad but I don’t always feel sad. When it’s bad, I don’t feel much at all. Or the anxiety shows up and I feel freaked the fuck out. Freaked out about what? Anything. Everything. Usually it’s something I have to do which, when looked at from outside, would appear to be a minor thing. A thing that will take me three minutes to accomplish. But it looms over me and I avoid it and the longer that goes on the more freaked out about it I am.

I found a comic online. It perfectly illustrates (literally) what I feel except it ends on a positive note and I don’t feel positive at all. If anything, this is getting worse. And I can’t keep going on without making some kind of change.

I searched the American Association of Sexuality Educators, Counselors and Therapists website (AASECT for short) for someone to talk to. Not because I think this is a sexual issue. Not because I have any issues whatsoever with my sexuality or how it manifests in my life. If anything, I’m more comfortable about who I am and what I do now than I’ve ever been. But I recall when Belle and I were seeing a therapist during our troubles and the issue of my kinky predilections was raised (not in a bad way or in much specificity, just in passing) and I didn’t get a good vibe from the therapist about it. Not that she was too negative, just that the first thing she thought of when the word “kink” was used was erotic asphyxiation and she seemed otherwise pretty clueless to my kind of sexuality. When I meet this new person, and assuming who I am sexually comes up, I don’t want to have to spend a lot of time fighting a headwind of sex negativity or ignorance. I don’t necessarily expect this guy to have a deep understanding of my specific proclivities, but I also don’t want to have to deal with any sex negative bullshit.

In my previous writing about this, I speculated that the denial might play a part. I don’t think that now. Belle let me come several times in a week recently and nothing changed. Some days are good, some days OK, some really bad. Even though I was, for that short time, on a normal kind of release pattern, I still woke up one night in a near panic about nothing in particular.

Belle’s on a trip at the moment and I can’t even say how long it’s been since she let me stay unlocked while away like this, but I’m out now. I asked to be because I didn’t want to go in. Not for the typical reasons. Not because I want to play with myself or whatever. I have little interest in that. I little interest in being out or locked up but being locked up when I feel like this is way more demoralizing than being unlocked.

—

So, it’s taken me like a week to write as much as this. Then I ignored it. It’s like sludging uphill in heavy boots through knee-deep mud to push these words out. I’m not quite as morose as I was when I started but I’m not in the clear, either.

Another reason this is hard to write is because I’m preconditioned to think I’m just being whiny and not trying hard enough. Somehow. It’s the development of the weird panicky anxiety issues that have driven me to finally see a professional. They don’t feel normal. I can’t easily rationalize them away.

I am back in the Steelheart, for those who are interested. I didn’t put it back on because I really wanted to but I thought Belle would want me to and I was starting to feel little urges to play with myself. It’s a testament to how ingrained this denial and chastity dynamic is in our relationship that even in the face of these issues I’m having, it remains. Perhaps we won’t put it aside because to do so would mean something was seriously wrong so we keep doing it. But I don’t think so. It’s not superficial. It’s not a thing we’re just doing. It’s more how we are.

I’ve mentioned before about my dent. My current mood has left me feeling bad about that. Like I’m broken or ruined or…I dunno. I am not broken. Everything is still functional. But I’m not the same. And my anxiousness is very happy to attach itself to that. In a different state, I’d have no issue with it at all. I might even embrace it as I did when I wrote the post I linked to at the start of this paragraph. But now it’s all about worry and fear. It’s far worse in my mind than it really is and I know this but I still think it until I feel it again. But I won’t allow myself to be rational about it.

In any event, I know I may be moderating because I don’t feel as negatively about it as often as I have. I can nearly accept my logical arguments and kind of feel the tendrils of what I used to feel about it. But I’m still not there 100%. Not even 50%. I’m even getting things done at work all by myself. It’s a challenge and much harder than it should be and I’m still nervous more than seems healthy, but it’s progress.

So I’m back in the Steelheart. Not because I crave it. More because it’s a kind of security blanket. A reminder of better feelings and thoughts. And because Belle prefers me in it.

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Turn and face the strange

It’s funny because I was thinking about writing something more or less on the topic of change. Specifically, change in how one expresses their sexuality or identity because, you know, that’s the kind of shit I talk about here. Then this shiny turd appeared over at Drew’s blog (emphasis mine):

Drew, you will always be the one who changed Thumper and forced your sissy feelings on him. This is all garbage that further justifies why the concept of gay marriage is bad. You can’t keep it in your pants and want us to accept that?

The comment was left after Drew composed (the second part) what must have been a difficult post on the subject of actually being in an open relationship when it’s the other guy who’s about to get lucky (Axel, not me). He bared his soul to a certain extent and wrote what must have felt like pretty raw and exposing stuff. But this post isn’t about that, specifically. And it’s not even about the comment, really, but it popped into being in the midst of me pondering this topic so it kind of has to be part of it.

I mean, after I point out the vile and disgusting prejudice on display. What a fucking asshole. Truly. I’ll say again, if you feel as this person does regarding marriage equity, know that I can’t stop you from reading my words and gaining value from them, but also know I begrudge that benefit and think you’re amongst the most terrible and reprehensible people on the planet. I hope you choke on it. Have a nice day.

Anyone who’s read this blog for a while (like, earlier than about a year ago) knows that I haven’t really changed at all since Drew appeared on the scene. I was always very open about my bisexuality and the sundry kinks I enjoy. Drew has only provided an outlet for some of my kinks and, to a certain extent, impacted the kinds of things I write about here (like these very words — oh, so meta!). If that’s the change the commenter takes issue with, I’d refer them to this post.

In fact, the fetish core to this site’s raison d’être — enforced male chastity — has probably been with me for as long as I’ve been alive. My sexual attraction to members of my gender goes as far back as my attraction to those of the opposite gender. But, I was not always aware of my interest in things like bondage and masochism and I never thought of the concept of an open marriage as being anything like something I could do.

It seems to me that we’re overly invested in wanting to be “normal” when it comes to sexuality and sex. We’re saturated with images of what that looks like from our earliest exposure to media. Boy, girl, happily ever after. It’s only recently that it seems as though our culture is starting to be OK with recognition of the other dynamics that make up healthy human sexuality. That there is no one definition that fits all. I think the younger generations are going to be significantly healthier than mine was.

Personally, I think we’re born with all our various kinks and preferences fixed in our heads at an early state (maybe before we even emerge). We don’t develop kinks as much as we unearth them. We don’t “turn gay” as much as we allow ourselves to accept that part of ourselves. Why do I say this? Not because I have science on my side (not that I’ve looked), but because it seems perfectly apparent to me. Before I knew what chastity was, I liked the feeling of penis constriction. Before I knew what gay was, I was drawn to some males more strongly than others. Before I looked into BDSM, I knew I responded strongly to images and scenarios involving capture, containment, loss of control, and domination. I also know that I psyched myself out over many of these things or simply disallowed myself to think about them outside of masturbation. But no, I didn’t become kinky at some point in my forties. I finally let myself be kinky.

But I do think we evolve from a relationship standpoint. I think what we want from a partner changes over time. I never thought about openness with Belle because early on my feelings for her were such that I didn’t want anyone else. Saw no point in anyone else. There was no room inside me for anyone else. Now that’s changed. Luckily, we still have a connection and I still want her and need her in my life, but we’re both fundamentally different. We know more about ourselves and each other. We are much more confident in our bond. We have already made all the extra people we’re going to make and they’re well on their way to being self-sufficient. So now, the intensity and perhaps the motivations of how we once felt have changed.

I think we need to allow ourselves as people to change more than we do. To see that in some ways our sexualities are fixed but the way we express them is more fluid. We need to not feel guilt for feeling the way we do if it’s different than “normal” or how we’ve been identifying for years. We will always be left- or right-handed, but we will not always draw with a crayon or write with a fountain pen or paint with a brush.

We are so much more complicated than we allow ourselves to believe and capable of so much more variety and experience than we’re aware. We should embrace that, not bury it. We should revel in it, not feel shame. We should especially not let others make us want to bury who we are or feel shame because of their internalized self-hatred.

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Demonstrations

Over on the Twitter, a friend asked me the following (slightly edited) via direct message:

In many posts you often describe Belle as sniggering or finding your struggle amusing (or trivial?) What I feel like I know of the relationship you have an incredibly loving bond. My question: is her resolve so clear that your whimpers just don’t faze her (kind of impressive?) or is there a sympathy or empathy there that we don’t hear much of? My hardwired vanilla sensitivities battle my “you know what the game is” sensibilities.

Belle has her own “hardwired vanilla sensibilities” and as much as I’ve grown in our dynamic and learned what it means to truly submit and let go of my control over our sexual relationship, she’s learned how to tailor her actions and attitude. Is she sympathetic? Empathetic? Probably. Does she find my struggles amusing? Definitely. I know there was a time when her conditioned “vanilla” response would kick in and she’d feel guilty about what I was going through. We’re way past that now. She doesn’t have a guilty fibre in her being over what she puts me through. If so, she does a good job hiding it.

Our dynamic is like that of a sadist and a masochist. To an outsider, the things the sadist does to their partner the masochist can seem truly awful. Abusive. But the masochist’s wiring is such that the pathways that carry pain and pleasure are mixed and crossover so what would be abuse in one setting is actually an expression of love. Of giving one partner what they need to feel fulfilled. If they’re a true sadist, they get the same kind of pleasure from inflicting the pain. So it’s a symbiotic kind of thing.

Belle’s no sadist. At least, not a physical one. She has developed a mean sadistic streak regarding my denial and chastity. Part of that is based in the knowledge that it feeds my masochistic needs. Part is that she knows there’s a tangible benefit to her by keeping me denied. A little part of her actually likes making me suffer.

So as much as this weekend hurt and caused me mental pain, inflicting it on me (and continuing to do so) is, in my estimation, a demonstration of her love for me. And enduring the pain is part of my demonstration of love for her. Yes, I desperately wanted to come. More than I have in a really long time. But after the moment was over, what I wanted and continue to want more is for her not to factor my desires into the algebra of her dominance over me. When I come again, I want it to be completely on her terms and only as a result of her needs and desires.

The longer I wait, the more it pains me and the desire gnaws at me, the more I’m demonstrating my love to her and, I know, by making me go through it, she’s demonstrating her’s back.

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I come when she wants me to

Belle doesn’t like it when I think about how long it’s been since I last came. She doesn’t care for record keeping or counting days or recognizing feats of endurance or anything like that. I come when she wants me to, period. When did I last come? When she wanted me to.

But I have it bad today. Real bad. She let me fuck her this morning after she came and it felt incredible and I really enjoyed it and once again totally psyched myself into thinking she was going to let me go all the way. I got close and slowed down and thought, sure, she’s just dragging it out. Enjoying it. So I let the orgasm retreat and I shifted position and kept my breathing steady before picking up the pace again. Oh my GOD it was wonderful and I was very grateful she was making me wait because it was so much better and I felt myself closing in on it again but she wasn’t saying anything so I again did what I had to do to let it fall back. When I resumed, it was at a pace that would culminate with orgasm. This time she’d let me and it would be amazing and my head would explode and I’d shoot a ton so she’d overflow with it and FUCK it was going to be the best thing ever and wow it wasn’t taking long before I felt like I was getting close again.

I looked at her as I fucked her. She looked back.

“What?” she asked.

Oh, FUCKING HELL.

“OK, time to stop, Thumpie.”

A palpable sense of loss flooded up. I wasn’t going to come and it pained me to know it. I was seriously on the verge of tears. I wanted it so badly. It was right there. So close, but still behind her iron gate. Not going to happen. If she had said I could, it would only take two and half thrusts to get there. But she wasn’t going to say it and all I could do was collapse into her neck and feel the lizard coil up hard inside me, bitter with disappointment that flowered after being planted in a fertile expectation to which it had no right.

I made a small, defeated noise. She thought it was funny. She sniggered. I whimpered.

And now I’m sitting here typing and still wishing I could come. I still feel the need and it’s distracting and consuming and driving me crazy. I read back on the blog and found the last real orgasm I had even though she doesn’t like me to think about it. July 7th. So we’re just over two months. Record is nine. She wouldn’t think two is that much. That I could do more. Also, stop counting. Stop thinking about it. You come when I want you to. That last time you came was when I wanted you to and the next time will be when I want you to. When will that be? Stop thinking about it.

If I was locked up right now, I don’t think I’d be worrying about it as much. The physical presence of the steel restrains me physically as well as psychically. If I were locked up, it’d free me to think about other things. Oh, I’d still think about wanting to come, but it’d allow room for other things to sneak in. But being free means I’m consumed by my desire. It pushes everything else out.

I need to be locked up. Right now. But Belle’s not here and I’m not feeling like I have the willpower to do it myself. God, I want to come so bad. I crave it like nothing else. But I don’t need to come. It’s probably best if I don’t. And I clearly don’t deserve it.

Not that it matters. I come when she wants me to.