Tag: bisexuality

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A reader’s questions

A reader sent me an email chock full o’ questions and, since I can’t get motivated to write about anything else, I thought I’d reply to them here…

Have followed your postings for some time and really enjoy them.

Thanks. I enjoyed many of them myself.

Does Belle control your appearance and grooming…hair, body hair, nails etc.?  Does she ever groom you or tell you how she wants it done?  How are they kept?

Not any more than any other wife. She likes me to look a certain way, but it’s not always the way I want to look and also not always appropriate for work (don’t get carried away – she like me on the scruffy side, is all). I probably would modify my appearance for her if she asked me to.

Ever get into bondage or cock and ball torture?  How have you been tied or what have you had done to cock and balls?

If you’ve followed me for some time, you’ll know I’m very into CBT and bondage. I’m not always in the mood, but when I am (or when Belle pulls me into it), I like it a lot.

As far as what’s been done, Belle’s punched me in the nuts, applied Icy Hot to them, pinched and squeezed them, affixed clothespins in and around the area, and (while tied up) rested a bag of ice on the entire package. I have a fantasy of her really kicking or kneeing them, but have thus far not pushed it because I’m not sure where the line is. I have grown to really appreciate testicle pain (again, while in the right mood), but am afraid of actually damaging them.

Now that I think of it, I recall that, prior to being with Belle, my masturbatory habits included wrapping a light chain (dog leash) around my cock and balls in order to cause constriction. In what was probably a strong foreshadowing of my future kinks, I liked the sensation of binding and squeezing. At some point, I lost the chain and used other various objects such as boot laces.

Ever get tied, tortured or used by another guy?  Interested in that?

No, I haven’t. Interested? Well, sure, in the same way I’m interested in any guy at this point. I’m not going to be acting on my interests since the rules of my relationship don’t allow it, but I think the dynamic differences in being topped by a guy versus a woman would be fantastic to experience. Guys have the ability to penetrate in a way that’s very obviously dominating.

Do you find yourself more bi as you are in chastity without cuming longer?

I am not any more or less queer when in chastity, but I am metric tonnes more horny. I feel as though I’m a perfect Kinsey 3 in that I’m usually equally attracted to women  and men. My level of frustration doesn’t change the direction of my attractions, though it can make them much more intense.

Ever made to service other guys or women?

I’m up to anything, but Belle’s not interested in sharing, as far as I know.

Sure these seem like random questions…I appreciate your answering them.

No problem.

I’d like to learn more about you.

Obviously!

Chastity is a huge turn on to me.

Me, too.

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Brought to you by the letter Q

I decided recently to change the word I use to identify my sexuality. Up until now, I called myself bisexual. I’ve never been happy with that term and using it has always felt like wearing an ill-fitting cardigan. I guess it’s all the negative connotation that goes along with it. Lots of gays stop in bisexualville on their way to their final destination and lots of wannabes who play around with people of the same gender in college do the same. It sounds flighty, shallow, and insincere. At least to me. If you call yourself bisexual, more power to you.

Gay doesn’t work either since it suggests exclusivity to (or, at least, priority for) the same gender. I don’t have that either. I can honestly say that I average out to a Kinsey 3. Some days, I find myself more drawn sexually to women, some days to men, but never even close to anything like a preference for one over the other. As I’ve mentioned before, I find emotional comfort with women, but I’ll fuck (or be fucked by) anything. Which, of course, is why straight doesn’t work either. I may be in a heterosexual relationship, but that doesn’t make me straight. I feel just as far from being straight as I do the opposite of that.

And so I’ve settled on queer. Of course, I’ve been aware of the word for a long time, but it’s always turned me off because I associate it (right or wrong) with a certain militant sociopolitical stance which I’m not comfortable with. Now, though, I don’t see it that way. This change in perception started by listing to Dan Savage talk about it in a recent podcast. He wasn’t talking to me, of course, but the way he described it resonated in a way bisexual never has. I like that it suggests difference from the norm rather than anything specific. I like that is sounds permanent. I like that it encompasses the kink side of my sexuality, too – this entire other axis I’ve only recently embraced. I am not like the other kids, obviously. Not straight, not gay, not vanilla (whatever that is). I am queer.

Of course, none of this is either here or there. I’m not going to have to change my census answers nor will this be reflected on my tax forms. I’m still exactly the same, except now the cardigan fits better.

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He comes laughing

I woke up Saturday morning at our family compound in the North Woods at 5:28. That’s within 5 minutes of when I woke up every day for the previous week or so. Usually I get up and pee since, as any guy knows, peeing helps alleviate morning wood and some days the wood’s so woody that the ring of the device is biting harder than a snapping turtle chomping on a guy’s tit. Not every day, but most days. I guess you could say that beside all the other reasons chastity is good for us, it’s also convenient having a reliable alarm clock with you wherever you go.

The night before, after rolling in moderately late and getting the kids settled down and asleep, Belle and I were laying in bed sipping Bailey’s, me naked at her direction, talking about the Steelheart again. I had been wearing it for 25 days and, while maybe not a record, it was pushing it. You leave something like that on yourself for so long and you start to lose physical memory of what it was like before it came along. We have both come to think of it as the cock and not just something over it. I told her how happy it made me to be wearing something she liked so much.

“Oh no”, she corrected me, “I don’t just like it. I love it.” Whimper.

The next afternoon, she unlocked it so I could prepare myself for that night. I was happy to see no surprises lurking under the steel. It all seemed perfectly normal (though I imagined it blinking and covering it’s eyes after so long in the dark). I cleaned both it and myself and shaved the spots I can’t normally get to. For the remainder of the day, I was commando in my pajama bottoms.

As the fabric rubbed against the head of the cock, I found the skin more and more sensitive to it. I don’t know if it’s something to do with the material of the device or if the PA fixing holds it such that it doesn’t come in contact with anything when it’s in there, but by the time we went to bed, it was really kind of driving me nuts. There’s nothing apparently wrong with it (maybe a little red), but it remains extraordinarily sensitive, even today.

The evening’s sexual activities were pretty standard fare. She let me give her an pretty great orgasm using my fingers and mouth (while she gently abused my balls) before I entered her. Once it was in the friendly confines of the warm and wet, any discomfort I felt on the head of the cock disappeared. The now thoroughly defeated sex lizard stirred just enough for me to lose myself in the act of fucking her, but not so much that I forgot to do as Ms. Rika suggests and ask to stop just before I came. I knew Belle wanted me to, and I figured I was going to, but Belle also liked Rika’s tactic of always having the man ask to stop before he comes (to ask if he can’t as opposed to asking if he can). In any event, the question surprised Belle and by the time she answered that she did want me to come, it was too late anyway. Nothing in the world was going to stop it.

I felt between four and five fat, healthy squirts followed by a large number of post-orgasmic flexes and throbs. It felt. So. Good. Seriously, top 10% of all orgasms. I even laughed. I once had a boyfriend who laughed when he came and I never really understood it since I’ve always felt orgasms were deadly serious business, but there I was, laughing. It was wonderful. Belle later commented on the prolific nature of the orgasm’s payload and I reminded her that it was 28 days worth with no relief (no milking and very little ancillary leakage).

Sleep reached up and forcibly pulled me down into its grasp. I slept incredibly hard and can remember no dreams. Just deep, deep sleep. And I didn’t wake up until Belle did at 7:30.

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45 and counting

It’s been 45 days since I last had an orgasm. I’m not writing this for any other reason except Belle’s still out of town (back tomorrow night!) and I’m really starting to feel both her absence and my extended orgasmless existence. I’ll admit up front here than I’m kinda all over the place tonight. No actual point to make, just feeling the need to express myself.

I’ll start by giving myself a little credit for mostly avoiding websites that’d make me even hornier than I already am, but it’s getting harder to resist. Especially since I’ve just found two cuckolding blogs (one fiction, one non-fiction). Thing is, this cuckolding stuff really turns my crank, though I know it’ll never happen. Belle’s said she has zero interest in going outside our relationship. Not only is she very much a one-man woman, she’s also very satisfied having sex with me. She loves the cock and loves that I know how to use it (though, admittedly, I was better at it back when I wasn’t always trying to keep myself from coming). So anyway, yeah, the cuckolding thing will remain pure fantasy, albeit a hot, blood-pumping one.

I realized today that the majority of the porn I’m consuming of late is heterosexual. In the years leading up to the introduction of D/s into our relationship, I enjoyed mainly gay porn with only an occasional foray into straight stuff. Nowadays, though, I’d say three-quarters of the stuff I look at or read is straight, kinky, female dominant entertainment. I always figured I liked the gay stuff before because, as an avowed bisexual, guys were what I couldn’t get at home. Now, though, I’m seeking out and enjoying themes that are either exactly what I get at home or variations on that.

A little while back, there as a bit of a debate in the comments about porn and my consumption of it. Belle was considering cutting me off in an extension of her control over my sex but ultimately decided she didn’t much care if I looked at it or not. Jane Docent had a good point when she said:

Are you really denied if you make yourself “hard and bothered”? You’re supplying your own sexual stimulation. Supplied, not denied.

I actually agree with that which is why I would have acceded to Belle’s restriction, had she required it, but I think the opposite point could be made that it isn’t whether or not I get turned on that’s important, but that I can’t so anything about it. That’s her control. If I had to, I could use my imagination to create my own internal porn. In either event, I couldn’t provide my own relief or even touch myself.

The question was also asked as to why I’d even want to look at porn. Tim said, “It almost sounds like additional suffering!” Well, yes. It is. Maybe that’s the point! I’m still wired to seek out the stimulation even if all it’ll do is build and stew inside. It makes my head buzz sometimes, but as I said in my reply comment, a lot of what gets me going sexually is excessive stimulation. Being locked up and letting the porn push my arousal to ever higher levels is part of what I’m in this for. My only regret is that I’m so turned on without Belle. Everything’s better when she’s with me.

So, anyway, she’s out of town and I’m locked up as I always am when we’re apart. She told me before she left that I would be secure until we leave next week on a short trip to Mexico (probably getting out on the 13th). She’s going to be nice and let me out for the entire trip which is very sweet of her, I think. I’m not keeping track officially anymore, but in looking at the blog since September 1, it looks like she’s kept me locked up 28 out of 37 days. If not for the fact that she really likes her cock, I probably would have been in longer than that.

Regardless of whether or not I’ll be secure on the trip, based on the very few hints she’s dropped, I don’t get the feeling I’ll be coming any time soon, even on vacation. Like I said, it’s been 45 days. How much longer? If it’s not until we get back, that’ll be over two months.

Assuming, of course, I don’t fuck up in Mexico.

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Going gay

Over on Fetlife, a guy started a thread called “Effects of Chastity on young males” in which he expresses his concern that being in chastity was turning him gay. Apparently, after being locked up for six weeks he had found himself craving assplay and was becoming aroused by the idea of “servicing” another man (or rather, being “forced” to do so by his domme). This guy was really worried that chastity was causing him to become something he felt was morally wrong. I don’t bring this up in order to make fun of him (though, based on some of his comments, I think he should be made fun of). Instead, his post has made me, a guy who’s enjoyed his fair share of assplay and “servicing”, ponder what it means to be “gay”.

For most of my living memory, I’ve been attracted to both genders. Many of my most vivid memories of childhood are those in which I engaged in sex play with my friends (going back to seven or eight years old, even). Most of the time, those friends were boys, but not always. As I got older and my equipment started to develop into something I could actually do stuff with, it was still the boys I was fooling around with most of the time. I think this was primarily due to the fact that boys were around me in large numbers and, it turns out, were just as horny as I was. I had several “partners” in my formative years who today, no doubt, would identify as the straightest of straight men and would totally repudiate any claim that they could be otherwise. But that doesn’t change the fact that other guys were cheap and easy and, as an added bonus, I liked their cocks as much as I liked my own.

At some point, I realized this wasn’t “normal”. Not only was playing around with sex a bad thing (as defined by my parents and other adults), but doing so with other boys was a Bad Thing™. And, since I often was the one to instigate it, I was doubly bad. The idea that I might be gay bubbled up in my head. Gay, as in faggot. As in all the terrible things young men call each other. As in the type of person others in my family detested and derided. That did not make me happy.

Once I hit high school and discovered the wonders of personal hygiene, the opposite sex discovered me. And I discovered I liked them, too. In fact, I liked them just as much, though differently, as I did the boys. I found girls and boys to be different in all kinds of wonderful ways. Like, when I kissed a girl her spit was mild, fragrant, and not as thick as what I found in a boy’s hot, steamy mouth. Girls were all soft and curvy and had these neat extra parts while the boys were hard and pushy and more familiar. Girls were a mysterious game, where the rules were always shifting and winning was hard, while boys were direct and simple (even the straight boys were easy to beat). I was an equal opportunity player and game for just about anything. For a while there, my girlfriend was best friends with my best friend’s girlfriend. We’d hang out in his room after school making out with the girls and, when they left, we’d make out with each other (and much more). This did not seem weird to me at the time.

If I identified as anything then, it was bisexual. I really hate the term bisexual (then and now), but it was the best I had to work with. I knew I wasn’t straight since I liked cock, but I wasn’t gay since I liked nearly everything about girls. I bristled then (and still would today) at the suggestion some of my gay friends made that I was confused. I was not confused about what I liked. I was confused about what that made me and how I was supposed to fit into a world where people like me didn’t seem to exist.

Eventually, I realized that while I could be sexually satisfied by both genders, there was a hole in my soul only a woman could fill. True, with a woman there were cravings for certain sex acts and body parts that would go unfulfilled. I decided, though, that I would never be emotionally satisfied with a man (though not before treating like shit the only one I ever loved). In fact, I was not gay. After a while, I got married, we had kids, bought a house and dog. But I still resist calling myself straight or bisexual. I am just me, the guy who’ll fuck anyone.

While I don’t consider the gender we crave for emotional satisfaction a choice (and, therefore, homosexuality isn’t a choice), I do consider the acts in which we engage to be a choice. I chose to have sex with men. I do not choose to find them attractive, they just are. I don’t choose to like taking up the ass, I just do. However, engaging in homosexual activities does not make me a homosexual (any more than my voting for Ronald Reagan makes me a Republican – but that’s another story). I think this is where a lot of “choice” arguments come from. Religious/conservative types who, in their youth, played around with guys like me and then, when they got older, assumed anyone who engaged in hot guy on guy action was choosing to do so, rather than doing what they felt most comfortable and natural doing.

So, long way around, the dude on Fetlife who was having urges to suck guys off and let them fuck him wasn’t going to end up any gayer than me, Rick Warren, or the man on the moon. You can only be gay when you’re gay. Straight boys who like cock are nothing more than that.

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Emotional vomit

It’s been too long since my last post. One reason for this is that we were up at the cabin for the long weekend and, as I’ve said before, there’s no internet up there. The other reason is that I’ve been kind of in a funk and didn’t really know what to write, even if I could.

It started over week ago. Belle and I were laying on the bed and she said something that caused me to ask her why I was locked up. Funny that I can’t remember how I came to be asking her that, but it’s been so long that the details are getting kind of fuzzy. In any event, she said it was because I wanted to be denied. Yes, that’s technically true, but in fact, I would have rather heard it was because she wanted me to be locked up. The moment passed, but it kind of gnawed at me for the rest of the evening until later that night when she said, innocently enough, that she didn’t want all this stuff about denial and chastity and yada yada to be all that we ever talked about. She wanted some balance.

A couple of things. One, I was trying to give her balance before she said that. I know that I think about it and want to talk about it more than she does. I think that’s natural. For one, I’m a male and think about sex, like, all the time. For another, being a sexually frustrated and an “orgasmically challenged” male makes me think about it all the fucking time. But really, what most struck me about her comment wasn’t that. It was that this whole new twist to our sex life isn’t really about us as much as it was about me. That is, I feel as though I’m “coming out” to both her and myself regarding this side of my sexuality that’s been bottled up for so long. Yes, it’s also about us and our relationship, but not entirely. So, when she said she wanted balance and not to have to talk to me about all this sex stuff so much, it sounded like she didn’t want to deal with me and everything I was discovering and exploring about myself. No, that’s not what she meant, but it’s what I heard. It played perfectly into my own self-doubts. I lost it.

For a couple of days, I was a total disaster. Every time we talked about it, I cried. Not just a little. I fucking sobbed. Inconsolable. I really don’t know where all that was coming from, but I can still feel it within me. It’s as if all my insecurities fused together to form some kind of emotional shark that never stops swimming just beneath the surface of my psyche. It’s unnerving enough to be unearthing all kinds of new urges and desires, but to do it along side your wife of eleven years who, it turns out, doesn’t have any of the same proclivities is really, really hard. At least it is for me. Nothing she said was meant to reject or marginalize me or my feelings, but it all felt that way. As someone who is typically quite confident and who approaches life accordingly, this has been a difficult set of feelings to come to terms with.

At the end of our conversations, we decided that maybe limiting me to three orgasms this year was way, way too aggressive. Not only would that make it very hard for me to give her the balance she was looking for, it would also place a lot of responsibility on her shoulders in dealing with me and my constantly needy and sexually charged state. To be able to successfully take that on would require that she actually enjoy it and I just don’t think she does. Not enough, anyway. I’ve asked that we target ten more orgasms and see how that goes. If, as we go along, we want to take that number down, I’m all for it, but to jump right to three seems crazy for both of us.

So then, since I was such an emotional wreck, she took me out of the CB-6000. Not only that, she allowed me to have sex with her and I came. The actual orgasm was intense – almost too intense to be pleasurable. I found afterward that I wasn’t very happy about having come. I almost felt a sense of mourning for the period of denial I had achieved and let slip by. As if the coming was just a punctuation on my failure and bizarre fetishes.

ARGH. I hate this post. I hate how it shows how much doubt and insecurity I carry around and how uncertain I am about who I am and how to make that work in my marriage. I have a wonderful, supportive wife and yet I’m still kind of a wreck about all this. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. Not for the first or last time, I wish I could just be fucking normal. Whatever normal is.

I should not even post this. I should delete it. But I feel like I need to emotionally vomit before I can start blogging again and I guess that’s what this post is: my projectile vomiting of all my inner demons upon you, my unknown reader. God, I fucking hate feeling like I’m not even sure I am what I think I am. I’ve been here before. Back when I was struggling with my bisexuality and not thinking you could be such a thing. But that was primarily a private struggle. Now I’m married with kids and a house and a dog and an expensive car and everything. Back in the day, I could withdraw. But not now. Now, I have to deal with it.

Someone please slap me across my face and tell me to snap the fuck out of it.

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Greener grass

The other day, I found a link to a site called Maria’s Diary. I’ve only read about half the content, but on it a woman named Maria tells a tale of domination over her husband Martin and how she eventually cuckold’s him. As I’ve started to explore the online world of feminine domination, I’ve stumbled upon quite a few cuckolding sites, but Maria’s is among the best as she tells the entire narrative of how she began dominating Martin, how that lead to him being cuckolded, and what happened next. She goes into exquisite detail of how she seduced her lover and used it to further demean poor Martin.

The first time I stumbled upon a cuckolding site, I felt an immediate surge of sexual interest. It was sometime towards the beginning my journey through orgasm denial and submissiveness and I was feeling a lot of new sensations and thinking things I’d never thought before. To be honest, I was struggling to understand the scope and scale of what I was discovering about my myself. When the cuckolding sites I found got me hard, I was taken aback. Orgasm denial was a huge turn on for me. So was chastity and submission. So was cuckolding. My god, I thought, where will it end?! Well, things are getting clearer for me.

I get off on unfairness. It seems so simple and obvious, but in fact, I never thought of it that way until recently. D/s to me isn’t about being inferior to Belle. Quite the opposite. In fact, I consider myself her equal. I am entirely worthy to be her partner. However, I am not treated that way sexually. She has the authority to disallow me equality in bed (the more capriciously, the better). She comes, I do not. She receives satisfaction, I do not. She sleeps, I do not. It’s the basic unfairness of the situation, and my inability to address it in any way, that rings my bell. I find some malesubs to be more into superior/inferior dynamics. They are unworthy of their mate’s attention and receive it only through constant service to her and her generosity. Mind you, I’m not taking anything away from anyone here. If that’s what honks their horns (and, in turn, the horns of their partners) then more power to them. However, it’s only been recently that I’ve even recognized the difference between the two approaches. If you believe you are basically inferior to your dominant, then it’s not unfairness that turns you one. If you’re really inferior, then any attention you receive is, in fact, much more than fair. It’s charity. If you believe your semen is “male slime” (as I’ve seen it referred to online) and that your domme is a supreme being to whom you are unworthy to service, then you’re not channeling the same wavelength as I. For me, it’s that I should, by rights, be able to have sex with my wife whenever I want and orgasm every time, but she won’t let me. Why? Because, that’s why.

So anyway, as it relates to cuckolding, it seems to me that those types of relationships are driven by the superior/inferior dynamic. Maria and Martin do not feel he is man enough for her. She deserves more, he deserves nothing. I find that terribly unfair (especially since most of the issue seems to be with the size of Martin’s penis, which really isn’t that small at all) and unfair is fucking sexy. I totally get my rocks off (figuratively, of course) reading about Maria grinding poor Martin into the dirt. So why not try to put myself in that position? If I get off on unfair and cuckolding’s about as unfair as it gets, why not try to hook Belle up with some stud? Well, to be honest, my ego’s too big. I know I’m an exceptional lover to Belle. I know she would be hard pressed finding someone who could satisfy her better than I do. Irregardless of the fact that she would never want someone else, I know that this mystery stud probably wouldn’t make her very happy. So, for me, cuckolding can only stay firmly in the land of fantasy porn. It’s hot and I like reading about it, but it’s never ever going to happen to me, and that’s OK.

Some of you are probably saying, yeah, so what? I don’t blame you. It’s all totally obvious to me now, but as I said, at the beginning of this self-realization period I didn’t know which of the things that turned me on were those I would need to find a place for in my and Belle’s life and which wouldn’t. At that time, anything that popped me a boner was potentially a future lifestyle option. Of course, I only needed to look at my own past – my first sexual self-realization period – to find a parallel.

When I was young, I was attracted to and had sex with both males and females. I assumed at the time that I was eventually going to have to choose one or the other, but I couldn’t stop looking and thinking about both and that was very confusing. I really felt like I wanted to be with the girls, but had at least one significant relationship with a boy who also happened to have a magnificent cock. I liked sex with girls, but I also very much liked cocks and the things you could do with them. At the end, though, I realized I really wanted to be with a girl, to have and to hold forever, and all I wanted from the boys (even the one with the magnificent cock whom I still love to this day) was sex. It was very hard for me to come to grips with wanting to be in a loving relationship with a woman while still getting turned on by naked men and craving the feel of their cocks in my ass. Eventually, I was able to segregate those things that really made sense for me emotionally and those that would need to remain fantasy (or, minimally, take the form of a really big dildo). You may be polyamorous and thinking to yourself that I’m just not seeing the big picture, but really, it’s as big a picture as I’m able to see, and I’m pretty happy with it.

Naked males and their cocks would not fit into my relationship any better than cuckolding would. But they can both still turn me on, and that’s OK. Sometimes, the grass is greener when the other side of the fence is something that can be integrated into our relationship (submission, orgasm denial, bondage) but other times the fence is just too high to get over. The grass looks much greener, yes, but it might just end up being astroturf.