Stress

The past few months have been daunting for me. Mostly related to dealing with an aged parent and being an only child, but contributing to the stress has been a significant home remodel project (which I’m not doing but has nonetheless created a lot of disruption in the house), some personal travel, my daughter’s high school graduation, her resultant anxiety about going off to college and some dithering about whether she wants to do that or take a gap year, and Belle’s job requiring her to work ridiculously long hours here at her office away from the office (aka, our house). Plenty of things to knock me out of my comfortable rhythm of life. And this week will be something of a crescendo as many of these things are intersecting and, oh yeah, I forgot to block my schedule at work.

Part of the comfortable rhythm I mentioned is when Belle lets me get her off. North of 95% of the time I get to bring her to orgasm is on the weekend. Weekend mornings. And a lot of those mornings I haven’t been home or some other thing has gotten in the way. I doubt in the past five or six weeks I’ve given her more than a couple orgasms instead of the ten or twelve that might otherwise have happened.

And that sounds not great for her on the surface, but for all I know she’s been taking care of herself while I was away. It’s really not great for me because, as I’ve been kept in chastity this entire time, I have no outlet for all the energy built up inside me. A normal guy might go jack off for relief, but my one and only outlet for that kind of thing is Belle’s pussy and I’ve barely touched it.

This has led to me feeling a lot more stressed than I might otherwise and also somewhat emotional with swings back and forth as well as being short tempered. The dark and unpleasant side of enforced male chastity.

And here we are very late on a Sunday with me staying up to pick up my mom at the airport after being away for yet two more weekend mornings with their pussy access meaning tomorrow I’ll be extra tired as I balance work, life, mom, etc.

I have no tidy ending for this one. I’m stressed and unpleasantly frustrated. I need an outlet. And I don’t have one. Hurmph.

Polling

Sometimes I ask questions on the Twitter in the form of the polling feature and then I’m immediately frustrated by its limitations. For one, I can only ask questions that have four answers. Then there’s the excessively short character limit for each option. Yes, yes, I know I could do like a Google form thing. But then that would require forethought and stuff.

Anyway, I recently asked a series of questions about duration of lockup that I think are interesting. First one…

My use of the word “endurance” was called out, but…based on my reading of the dictionary, I did, in fact, mean “endurance” so there we go.

Anyway, this ended up how I thought it would based on my experience and what I’ve heard and read from others. Some people are presumably new to chastity and are just trying to make it though the night. I remember those days. But 3/4 of people are doing what I’d consider “long term” (though that’s an interesting point — what defines “long term” chastity?”). Thirty-nine percent are doing it the way Belle and I are. Months to years indefinitely, I think, defines how we do it. It’s our “endurance goal.”

Next question I asked was…

Again, not a shock. The only somewhat surprising thing is only 15% of people are doing lock up terms “about the same” now versus when they started. Of course, they could have started last week. I’d be curious to know of the guys doing it less now than then, is it due to device issues? Not being able to find a good fit? Or because their keyholder didn’t/doesn’t like it?

Then I asked…

Once more, not a shock. Not based on my experience and what I hear and read from others.

I think all this is important for those just getting into enforced male chastity or thinking about experimenting with it (on either side of the lock). Locking up penises is rarely done as a hobby. It’s not a once in a while thing. The practice expands in a way opposite that of the locked up member. The more you have it, the more you want it. Days turn to weeks and months then years and the one being locked nearly always wants more of it, not less.

One more question about how dicks are being locked…

Half of those responding say what they want is to be mostly or always locked. Another third say periods of being locked then not, which is how Belle and I did it for a while. Until it became clear we had to take it to the “mostly or always” stage. That was something we both wanted.

I guess the nature of male chastity allows for it to consume one’s relationship and sex life. Those into bondage or sadomasochism or what have you can’t do them all the time. But male chastity can be done all the time, even when the couple is apart. That’s potent for a kink that becomes more compelling as the time practicing it goes on.

Finally, I asked…

Less than a quarter of those locked in chastity want to have an orgasm when they’re released. More than half would rather be teased then relocked while the remainder don’t want to be unlocked at all.

This gets to how chastity rewrites the basecode of those being locked. We start to crave the crave more than getting what we crave. Even to the point of being disappointed when the key shows up and they hear it’s orgasm day.

I guess this is what I was trying to get at when I wrote about the two types of men in chastity. Those who still think about the device and its contents separately and those who only think about the device. That’s what it does to you. Maybe not to every guy, but to a very large percentage of them. You don’t have to just take my word for it.

The fulcrum

I’m so goddamned fucking horny right now. The kind of horny where the need and cravings and desire feel like the jet of a firehose against a solid steel plate. Lots of force without any consequence. Just vibrating energy.

I said “need and cravings and desire” but, being back in the Steelheart and not in a device I can back out of or even see what it contains, all those things in my mind are focused not on the contents but on other things.

I was out in the world earlier and seeing people I thought were attractive (which, not shockingly, is a lot more than usual when I’m like this) and imagining them grinding their pussies into my face or shoving their cocks down my throat.

All this following a morning with Belle where I felt like eating her whole and it’s clear I’m really back home in the Steelheart. For me, it’s the fulcrum between being inwardly focused vs. outwardly focused. A locked sub should, IMO, be outwardly focused always. Thinking about pleasuring his partner and even only fantasizing about that. I’m horny as fuck but now not thinking about being out. Only thinking about what I can do for someone else without a functioning penis.

That’s what being kept is all about. It’s who and what I am. My pleasure is driven by pleasuring them. Not even my fantasies allow for anything else.

That moment

That moment where my finger’s sliding over her wet, hot clit and our bodies are pressed together with the contents of the Steelheart swollen and tight and wanting between us and our mouths are close enough for kissing but we aren’t and we simultaneously moan into each other.

That moment.

Is perfection.

Contents

I just spent a week and a half wearing the Cobra chastity device made by KINK3D (though I bought it from Mr. S). It’s a device I’ve been seeing a lot of lately and I decided to give it a try and write up a review.

This is not that review.

As you can see, the Cobra is an open cage-style device. It’s quite attractive, I think, in semigloss exoskeleton black. But the thing I found as I wore it (especially since I was wearing it entirely unsupervised in situations that in my pre-kept life would have led to excessive self abuse) is how much more aware of the contents it made me.

Of course, I’m aware of the contents in the Steelheart, too. I know it’s in there. But the Steelheart, being entirely closed, merges with the contents and replaces it in my mind. It becomes something different. In a lot of ways, it and what it contains feel to me like some kind of symbiotic thing.

But with the Cobra, the contents are more on display. When trying to become erect, you can see the straining and puffing. It’s very visibly a penis in a cage which leads me to think about the contents so much more. They never felt like they merged to me.

And, like I said, I was in these situations where, a long time ago, I’d’ve been jerking off every single day. Especially toward the end of the period away, I was seriously thinking about the goddamn thing and craving its release from captivity. In way more pointed and specific ways than when I’m in the Steelheart.

I didn’t have a key and could not have removed it, but backing out of an unsecured device like the Cobra is supremely easy. This fact grew in my mind to such an extent that I had to have serious conversations with myself. Reminding me that the contents are not mine. Orgasm is not up to me. If I ignored those basic truths, I’d be very disappointed with myself. I would feel terrible. It became something of a mantra as the hours and miles rolled by.

If the Cobra was secured through my PA, none of this would have been an issue. Sure, I’d’ve still been horny, but that would be it. Just horny. No temptation. It is easier for me when that temptation is removed. But the contents and I both know non-PA fixed devices are really nothing more than simple deterrents. And…GAH.

Ultimately, that’s the luxury of PA-enforced chastity. Being just horny. No constant struggle with temptation. No chance of giving in to all those years of evolutionary programming for release. No risk of failing at one’s commitment.

The Cobra is a great device. That’s what my review will ultimately say. But I need a device that goes through as well as around its contents.

The kept man’s conundrum

I kind of obsessively obsess over personal stats. I have two Apple Watches so I know exactly what range my normal minimum sleeping heart rate is (40-45 BPM) and what my normal daytime resting heart rate is (50-56 — thanks, running!). I weigh myself nearly daily to keep tabs on that (192.9 lbs most recently) and I track my daily net carbohydrate intake and even have a little doodad to help me know when my body is burning fat versus carbs. My motto is if a thing can be tracked and measured and reported, it should be tracked and measured and reported.

And that’s why I use an app to keep track of when, how, and for how long Belle keeps me in chastity. So I know that year to date, I’ve been locked in five different devices for 3,248 hours and unlocked for precisely 3 hours and 53 minutes. Three separate times so Belle could enjoy the contents fucking her (if, however, very briefly) and another time when I went to the doctor. That’s just a hair over one tenth of one percent not being kept. And even in almost four hours out of 3,250ish so far this year, it’s not like the contents were free. Those periods of not being locked were still being controlled. When you sign up for the life of a permanently kept man, it’s critical you accept that even when it’s not physically secured, the contents are not ever under your control.

I tweeted these numbers on the Twitter, as I do, and followed up with a comment that it would be “great” if the year ended with me being unlocked no more than ten hours. And that, you know, kind of swims upstream from the notion all the hot chastity porn gets frothy about. Locked guys are supposed to want out. To fuck and come or whatever. But I very certainly do not want out. Ever. Of course, I accept Belle’s total control over the contents and provide no objections whatsoever when she hands me the key so she can use it, but if she never handed me the key? Well, I would similarly offer no objection whatsoever.

I think the goal of a man being permanently kept is for him to be weaned off any attachment over his penis. First step beyond keeping him from getting to it is, as I’ve done, to never refer to it as mine. To never use the aggressive and action-biased word “cock” to describe it. It’s the penis. Or, better, the contents. Second is to train the man and his autonomous systems to stop associating the contents with sex. To fundamentally break the deep societal penis-centricity of MF sex. This is why some men in chastity think it causes erectile dysfunction. It doesn’t, but locked contents will stop getting as hard as often during sex once they figure out it’s not for them. The most incredible aspect of this physiological acceptance of place is how I will become sleepy after Belle comes. As if I have. I don’t know if I’m experiencing a true post-orgasmic prolactin dump or if it’s some kind of placebo version of one, but while she’s basking in her afterglow, I’ll nuzzle into her neck and fall asleep even while I feel the pressure in the tube subside.

The well-trained man in permanent chastity will no longer expect to be unlocked when it comes time for him to pleasure his partner. He’ll not only not expect it, he will not want it. Because it can be sometimes challenging to deal with the conflicting feelings of self-gratification while trying to stay focused on the pleasure that really matters — his partner’s. I am a much more patient and attentive curator of Belle’s orgasm when I’m not feeling her hand on the erect shaft of the penis and thinking three steps ahead to the glorious sensation of sliding into the hot, wet embrace of her pussy. A well-trained kept man knows that sensation is one he is not entitled to. Does not deserve simply because he has a hard penis. And not getting it makes not getting it make more sense to his kept, submissive brain.

Regardless, sometimes that’s what she wants and what she wants is the paramount motivation of our sex. So I need to find ways to wrap that logic pretzel around the moment. At least she doesn’t seem to want it much.

Tried something new with this one. I made a quick and dirty audio version of this post.

The two types

It seems to me there are two kinds of men in chastity.

  1. Men with cocks locked in chastity devices
  2. Men with chastity devices

I think way back at the dawn of time when Belle locked our first CB6K on me, I was definitely the first type. And a lot of guys are always going to be that type. For them (and their keyholders), chastity is a means to an end. They use it tactically to enhance their sex lives and make the inevitable release, fucking, and orgasm as mind-blowing as possible. For sure, all the second types start out as the first type. As I did. But then we find ourselves in a new place. Where being locked up is no longer a means to an end. It is the end. You do it for it.

And to the first type, the second type will either seem totally crazy, which means they’ll always be the first type, or totally terrifying. As I did. And that fear, I think, is the best indication that they’re not going to become the second type. They already are the second type.

There are lots of examples I can think of in my own sexuality where I was confronted with something I had no conception of that scared the hell out of me only later to realize it was me. If you’re not into something, it either squicks you out or you think it’s hilarious or crazy or whatever. But the fear is rooted in something else. It’s self-realization fighting with shame.

I can recall the first time I read accounts of cuckolding. Of being cuckolded. I recall how it made me tremble. Of how panicked it made me feel. Because I saw myself in it in a way I did not expect. And I had to deal with what that meant. Of how I had to reassess my understanding of myself.

I think with chastity and denial it was slower, but the same. In the early days, I was frustrated at Belle for locking me up but then not letting me have as much sex with her as I wanted. Perhaps in an attempt to get me to leave her alone, she’d let me go unlocked and allow me to edge myself for hours in bed next to her while she slept. I’d literally jack off for hours, frothing myself up, leaking like the Titanic and making our bedroom stink of ejaculate. I mean, honestly, in retrospect. What the absolute fuck was that about?

Letting go of preconceptions about oneself is hard. I spent the first 40 or so years of my life defining my sexuality around the contents of the Steelheart. I was always leaning into submissiveness since I always wanted to get my partner off first and was very invested in their pleasure, but I also very much expected and felt entitled to my pleasure. I had pride of penis. Of its role and primacy. I can even remember arguing with Frodo way back in high school about whose dick was bigger. And thinking mine was. I mean, honestly, in retrospect. What the absolute fuck was that about?

Losing my pride of penis was scary and hard because I had to come to grips with being the kind of submissive that was almost entirely focused on my partner’s pleasure to such an extent that mine was totally ignored. And that being denied like that was how I found my pleasure. A satisfaction and contentment far in excess of post-orgasmic stupor. I had to let go of being the archetype male who is the sexual aggressor and penetrator and whose sexual release is celebrated over all things and become instead…this other thing. The second type of man in chastity. The type who lets go of his penis, figuratively and literally. A type of man we have no archetype for.

And, of course, this is who I am. And it no longer scares me. It provides me comfort. I am living my true life.

It’s impossible to imagine finding myself here without Belle. She had to adapt to what I needed nearly as much as I needed to adapt to being kept as I am. She never signed up to be married to a kept sub bottom who didn’t want to (and now barely can) fuck. She likes being fucked. Riding my hard-on was her preferred way to come. But she’s allowed her body to relearn some things to accommodate me. We’re not sure she can come from penetration anymore. It’s all digits and tongues now for her.

I can’t ever really express how grateful I am to her. Her understanding and generosity.

But, getting back to this post’s premise, there are two types of locked men. It’s worth asking yourself which type you are. Are you appalled at the idea of letting go of your cock? Or are you afraid of it? Or do you aspire to it?

There’s nothing wrong with either type. You are who you are. Embrace it.

Rubbing one out

It started innocently enough. Belle and I were watching some TV before she had to get on a conference call. Her job requires her to get on work calls at odd hours. Sometimes very early, sometimes at night. All part of being on a global team, I’m told.

So yeah, we’re there on the couch and I have my hand on her leg and was sort of absently rubbing it when a sudden urgency sprang up from the dispersed cloud of general horniness I’ve been feeling lately. I gripped her inner thigh and made an involuntary grunty sound and was really aware of wanting to bury my face in her snatch.

“Oh, that’s how it is,” she said (or something like it).

“That’s how it is,” I replied. “Maybe later you can sit on my face.”

I mean, it was a weeknight. Lol. She doesn’t usually want that stuff on weeknights and especially not on a Monday night after getting off twice over the weekend. So she went off to take her call and I watched a bit more TV before heading off to bed to read.

You see, I’ve been up late lately watching the worst most wonderful sport known to mankind; baseball. Games start at 7:00 and don’t end until about 11:00. They’re not just any baseball games. They’re World Series games and my team is in it. So I was thinking I’d read about the Revolutionary War for a bit, get sleepy, then catch up on my zzz.

But, as I said, I’ve been like 17% hornier than usual lately. I wasn’t asleep yet when Belle got off her call and came to bed. She told me I could sleep naked (which is a thing I’m not supposed to do without explicit permission). So then I was naked and horny. But I was tired and almost got there. But not quite. Belle had had an annoying call and was grumpy and was struggling to sleep herself and I picked up on that. Usually, she drops off to sleep almost immediately but she was tossing and turning and then sidled up next to me and put her hand on my naked ass.

BOING.

*shuddering breath*

“You know, if you’re having a hard time falling asleep, I can get you off. That…could help.”

She made an amused little sound which I assumed could be translated as, “Nice try, rabbit.” But no. She ran her hand over my ass and down between my legs. And then back up…and back down again.

My back arched like the slut I am. Ooooooh did that feel good. Her finger teased my perineum and then traced my crack back up to the small of my back. Instant pressurization of the Steelheart. I could have laid there like that for a week, but a little voice told me, You’re supposed to be getting her off, not letting her stroke your ass.

I rolled over to face her. Her hand went right to my balls and gave them an aggressive crunch. I winced with pain but it didn’t stop me from kissing her. Sometimes, she decides to hurt me more than others. It seemed to me her frustration with that call was going to be channeled into my testicles. And I would have to take it.

She can hurt me, but I can’t hurt her back. So while she was squeezing my balls against one another and the steel between them, digging in her nails and pulling hard on them, I had to maintain gentle kissing. When I pulled up her top, I needed to lick and suck her nipples gently. As much as I wanted to bite them, that is entirely forbidden. I absorb pain, I do not create it.

I worked my left arm up behind her head to get access to her other nipple from behind and moved back and forth from her mouth to her tit, licking and sucking one hardened nub while very gently rolling the other between my thumb and forefinger. My right hand ran up and down her inner thigh and flicked over the point on her bottom when I could feel the humid heat of her desire respond to me.

Her bottoms came off and my middle finger quickly found the slit below her clit, already seeping and wet. Then I moaned. Jesus god, I love pussy. I love her pussy. Had it been up to me, I would have buried my face in it. I would have eaten that pussy like a last meal to a starved man. But that’s what I wanted. What I inferred she wanted was to just get off as simply and efficiently as possible. So I didn’t even ask. Didn’t even consider making a move on my own. So my middle finger traced and flicked and encircled her clit and rubbed it in and out while I suckled the nipple in my mouth.

Attempting to get her off on a third consecutive day can sometimes simply not work. But I could tell this was working. I can read her hips and how she breathes. Her little moans. I know her orgasm as well as my own. This was going to work.

The contents of the Steelheart painfully pushed at the inside of the tube. As if it was there for the first time and assumed with enough effort it could break free. Her hand kept its grip on my balls and her crushing grew stronger the closer she got to orgasm.

Then she came. And it was beautiful. And painful. But still beautiful. As always.

Then her hand let go and the blood rushed back into my scrotum. She basked and I thrummed with unspendable energy. As she came down from her climax, the contents of the Steelheart flexed and surged in defiance. A useless waste of effort.

Shortly afterward, she was asleep. Breathing regularly, my mission accomplished. But I was…not asleep. Then I was not asleep some more. Then some more.

Random pornographic images pushed into my head and I tried to stiff-arm them to the side. But it was a losing battle. Eventually, something formed in my imagination with enough clarity to cause the tube to pressurize. And then I was done.

I find it a highly addictive feeling. I like how it feels for the contents to squeeze and throb with my heartbeat. It’s my earliest kink. And once I feel it, I want to feel it again. I want to feel it harder. I want the base ring of the Steelheart to bite into the straining contents. There’s never a time when the contents are driving the bus more than those times. Late at night. When I can’t stop my filthy imagination from running rampant. And with every shift and turn in bed, the weight of the steel and the captive meat and blood pull and tug and flop around making them and their situation more obvious.

Sometimes, I can recite a kind of mantra. Telling myself I am supposed to be like that. I was born to be that way. To suffer the frustration and urges. Often, that acts as a kind of soothing balm and I can catch a few hours of sleep.

But not last night. The contents woke me up again and again, like a petulant brat, just as I neared the edge of sleep. Swelling and subsiding over and over. Like a slow cadence of waves on a beach.

So I got zero sleep last night. And the game starts tonight at 7:00. Game six. Potentially the last game of the series and the first championship for my team since 1988.

Ugh.

Semantics

The inimitable Mrs. Fever commented on my last post:

“the contents” — I like this terminology; the penis being the contents of the package rather than being the package. It’s a subtle bit of semantic separation, but it carries weight.

Regular readers will know that quite a long time ago I stopped referring to the contents as a “cock” because the connotation that noun evokes is of action and intent and it seemed to be counter to what’s promised on the label of this site and in the spirit of our dynamic. I demoted the organ to “penis” because it was the most descriptive word and telegraphed no intent or overt purpose. I also stopped referring to it as “mine” since it’s not. I gave it to Belle and now it’s just attached to my body. More recently (though it may have been two years ago because lol time) I’ve tried to stop using the word “penis” and have gone with “the contents” for a few reasons.

One, as the Mrs. points out, semantically I’m trying to elevate the total package over what it contains. If, as I’ve said a million times, the Steelheart (or whichever device is standing in for it) is me (and it is), then I should walk that talk. When the Steelheart is off me, it’s a thing. A tool. When it’s on me, I am complete. It makes that part of my body whole in the same way my wedding ring finishes out its finger on my left hand. But I do, from time to time, need to refer to what’s inside the Steelheart since they are two parts of a whole and the new best word I can think of is “the contents.”

Two, in the same way the contents push on the steel, the natural urges I was born with put a strain on my state as a kept man. I like being kept and never want to not be this way, but hormones and deep reptile urges are powerful and I feel it’s important to use all the resources of the higher rabbit brain to maintain the careful equilibrium within me. Words, which are the exclusive domain of the higher brain, have power.

I mean, sure, ultimately this is a game of semantics. But I think it’s also finding ways to go from “having a locked cock” to “being kept.” There’s a spectrum there. One I’ve travelled. Part of my never-ending quest to move chastity from something I do to what I am. Never-ending in that being this way does go against a couple million years of evolutionary programming and, like a lot of devotions, needs to be practiced and looked after until it’s truly second nature.

Even that term — second nature — says it is not the first nature. And that’s what I ultimately want. To deepen and strengthen my commitment to what I feel is my conscious nature, perhaps. The nature of my higher brain — my mind — that is separate and distinct from my primal nature. The nature that is all urge and instinct-driven.

We are complicated beings. More than the sum of our programming. More than the impulses that all living things share. All our experiences and feelings are refracted by what goes on in our big brains. And what goes on in mine is reinforced by simple words. Using them and really accepting them to be true.

Our primal natures and our conscious natures are not always going to be in alignment. But we live up here in our consciousness. So…words matter.

It is better to give than receive

The first and most basic rule of my being kept is that Belle decides when and how the chastity device contents are used, always every time. Even in #Locktober. She is not bound by hashtags.

So it was the other morning, not long after our wedding anniversary and near our chastity anniversary, that she decided what she really wanted was for me to fuck her with the device’s contents. And that’s why my #Locktober won’t be 744 continuously locked hours.

Not only did she want me out, she wanted me to come. It had been more than a month since the contents were allowed inside her at that point and sliding in was, honestly, sooooo fucking nice. But the magic words whispered in my ear didn’t happen until I had already been fucking her for the approximately 90 seconds required for me to have to stop and I had already started to mentally shut the orgasm down when she said I could have it.

I didn’t hesitate. It’s not that I wanted to come. It’s difficult to say anymore if what I feel is a desire to come but, regardless, what I want isn’t part of the equation. So even though I had already started to back off when she told me to do it, I sallied forth best I could and had an orgasm, of a kind. It felt like the ruined leakages I usually have. No fireworks of sensation, no build of pressure and pop of shooting explosively. The only real difference is instead of stopping my thrusting into her just before it began, I kept pumping all the way through. And that made it real.

On a scale of 1 to 10 of orgasmic sensations, it was like maybe a 2 or a 3. Tops. I don’t think it’s possible anymore for me to have an “orgasm” if I only get one every twelve months or so. But is was an orgasm and the tell was all in the brain chemistry.

For a long time time, I’ve found Belle’s orgasms make me sleepy as though I had had one, too. It’s kind of a cute little sympathetic reaction I developed once I was weaned off the expectations of coming myself. But I had forgotten what a real post-orgasmic chemical hit felt like. A full man’s dose of that cocktail of hormones and other fun stuff hit me like a freight train. A tranq dart to the neck wouldn’t have put me down faster.

I mean to tell you, I was fucking drugged. Laying there next to her I could occasionally feel my consciousness try and surface only to get pulled back into the shadows by a hundred heavy velvet tentacles. It was amazing. Clearly, denial has not only given me a hair trigger but also made me a prolactin featherweight.

And I have found that there was little to no sub-drop after the orgasm. I put the contents back into a device right away without any internal resistance and have felt an edge to my horniness in the days that followed. Like I was given a taste of a drug I used to be addicted do and those old gnawing cravings flickered back to life. It makes me wonder if I was given the chance to have orgasms regularly, either with her or on my own, if I’d be able to have what feels like normal ones again. If so, how long would it take? How many? Or have I been reprogrammed to such an extent that they’ll never again be what they were?

The fact that I’m even thinking that is a symptom of being allowed the one, though. If she makes me wait another year and then another after that and so on and so on…well, those are not the thoughts of a man kept in my condition.