Tag: sexuality

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The one about ass play that lacks a pithy title

Belle caught up on the blog yesterday which means she also caught up on my butt plug endurance project.

“Are you OK with it?”

“Sure. I don’t understand it, but I’m OK with it.”

I have always been excessively self-conscious about anal play and my enjoyment of it. It’s not something I generally talk about with Belle since she’s shown no interest in it at all (and has drawn a line around it from a participation standpoint). In a way, blogging about it is a kind of therapy in that I really get to own it. I find it to be generally empowering and freeing to write about it bluntly, share the occasional image, and just revel in the pleasure I find there.

But, I’m still vulnerable. Her innocent and totally unpointed remark about not understanding my enjoyment of anal play made me withdrawn emotionally like a snail whose eyestalk got tapped. I didn’t show those feelings to her since I didn’t want to guilt her out, but I did take a break from the WMCBP for a few hours as I regrouped internally.

How do you make someone understand why you like something they don’t (and really, how is it different from chastity which she’s exclusively interested in only from her side of the key)? Specifically, when it comes to anal play, it seems to me the first thing that turns people off is the fact that it deals with something most of us have been brought up to think is dirty and should be avoided. It’s unhealthy, even. I suppose some people are simply unable to get past their aversion reflex. I was brought up pretty much the same as everyone else, but for some reason I’m able to separate the mechanics of how one gets to the point that they can experience healthy anal play and the real pleasure every man is physiologically capable of experiencing once in the proper state. It’s really no more unpleasant than changing a baby’s diaper, most of the time, or more complicated.

Anyway, assuming you can get yourself past any squickiness and actually get to the pleasuring part, it’s really fucking great. I’d bet your anus and your lips are about on par with one another in their degree of sensitivity (they’re mirrors of one another, after all). And the prostate is nothing but pure molten awesome if you treat it right. Men are just wired to really like playing with their asses if they ever bother to try.

From a young age, I craved playing with my ass. I was originally introduced to the idea when I was quite young (six? seven?) by an older neighbor kid (ten or twelve, I’d guess). I suppose some people would look at the interaction and see something sinister, but I’ve never really felt that way. He was just a kid, too, though several years older. My friend from across the street and I would go to his house and he talked us into doing all kinds of things. To ourselves and one another. He never participated, as far as I can recall. Just directed. Perhaps he grew up to be a molester or maybe he was just curious and wanted to experiment with his particular brand of sexuality. I don’t know. But that little taste unlocked for me a curiosity to discover what anal play could be. And I suppose I’ve never looked back. Sideways once or twice, but not back.

Perhaps the furtiveness of those early explorations and the fear of getting caught (I remember the older boy warning us about ever telling anyone about what we did — not a good sign for him, I suppose) is what’s stuck with me to this day and causes me to be hesitant about being open with Belle. I know, I say that, but I write all the things I write here and it doesn’t seem to add up. It’s easier for me to write than to speak, especially about this kind of thing. I knew she would read the posts about the plug sooner or later as she always does. So I’m not exactly hiding. But I doubt I’d have ever volunteered the information on my own.

It just occurs to me in rereading this that back when masturbation always lead to orgasm and I’d make anal play a part of that, as soon as I came I’d become borderline disgusted by what I’d done. I’d try to get the toys away from me as quickly as possible and even once recall throwing them out afterward. Again, that’s doesn’t sound healthy. Now, since masturbation never leads to orgasm, I never get back to that place. I still find I have a general ebb and flow sort of tidal kind of interest in playing with my ass, but there’s no post-orgasmic guilt-ridden crash.

I had originally thought this post was going to be a little review of some new toys I got from Mr. S (and I’m sure I’ll get back to that at some point) following my use of them this morning. Instead of crashing after I came (because I didn’t because I’m locked in the Steelheart and aren’t allowed to in any event), I had to will myself away from one of the toys in particular. I’ve developed an intense infatuation with it and it was making me feel some really incredible things. Eventually, I had to tell myself to stop. So no, I never get to that bad stage now. I just hover in the clouds. Maybe that’s what make it possible for me to write about it.

In any event, like I said, this post didn’t go where I thought it would. That’s why it doesn’t have a nice little bow on it now as I wrap it up. All this is what it is. I really like getting fucked in the ass. I like wearing plugs (and yes, the WMCBP is still in place). I know I shouldn’t feel anything bad about that, though it certainly feels like I’ve got a headwind in moving towards a point of self-acceptance and comfort.

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It’s not the size of your striatum that matters, it’s what you do with it

I keep having weird thoughts when I meet people. Not all people, but some. For guys (like this dude that was working a convenience store I happened into the other day), I wonder what kind of porn they watch. I try and pick if it’s classy or kinky or raunchy or just tasteless. I find myself sorting through various genres in my head and trying to match it to the guy in front of me. Harder than it may sound since I think one’s porn preferences are, more than anything, a mirror to one’s soul and souls are rarely on display.

I mention this because of the recent “porn makes men stupid” articles that have been floating around. This bit is from The Daily Mirror:

Too much porn can make men stupid, scientists have revealed.

A study by German researchers at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development found that men who watch a lot of porn generally have a smaller striatum.

The striatum is the part of the brain which processes ‘rewards and motivation’ – leading scientists to believe that pornography damages this function.

They can also have less grey matter, making their brains generally smaller than those of men who rarely watch it.

And I’m thinking, wait a minute. How do they know the porn makes the brains smaller? Maybe their brains were smaller to begin with and that’s why they look at the porn.

The female leading author of the study Simone Kühn, did point out however, that it isn’t clear whether X rated material is making brains smaller, or whether men with a decreased striatum tend to watch it more often.

Oh. OK. Well, at least they were thinking about that. And, you know, I look at a lot of fucking porn, so maybe my brain’s OK after all.

I don’t know if porn makes me stupid, but I can certainly feel stupid while looking at it. Sometimes, I can get lost in it and lose complete track of time. Usually, guys have a built-in governor in their orgasm that makes them stop but guys like me don’t have that. We just keep making whatever brain chemical gets made when we’re aroused (not to be confused with the other kind of fluid that leaks out of our penises) and it’s some pretty fucking potent stuff. So that’s me, the slack-jawed, glassy-eyed porn addict letting his striatum wither away as he looks at an endless Tumblr stream of raunch and sodomy.

That striatum thingy was new to me so I looked it up. According to the Wikipedia:

In humans, the striatum is activated by stimuli associated with reward, but also by aversive, novel, unexpected, or intense stimuli, and cues associated with such events.

It’s been a really long time since I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express, but that’s really interesting to me. Clearly, people like me aren’t hooked up in the typical way vis-a-vis the whole “reward and motivation” system. I’m not motivated like most people and the things I find rewarding most others would think were kinda fucked up.

In an unrelated but also kinda not turn of events, I found again this old article from The Daily Beast about cuckolding being the “intellectual sex fetish.”  I don’t know about that, but I had a hard time even finishing that article at work.

This isn’t like swinging, and it’s not a threesome. Cuckolded men (aka “cucks”) only observe their wives’ infidelities, they don’t participate. And that’s why they find it a turn-on: They’re left out, looking on as the woman they love climaxes with a better man than them. It’s a form of psychological sadomasochism. Some people get turned on by whips, chains, and physical pain. Cucks get aroused by mental anguish.

Yeah, and some of us get turned on by whips and chains and physical pain and the idea of our wive’s fucking around with other guys.

“Imagine looking at the guy who’s about to go to bed with your wife. Imagine hearing the man crying out in bed with your wife,” says Paul, who pleasures himself “like a madman” during these encounters. “The high point of cuckolding is when your wife says she wants the other guy all the time and never wants you. Sally’s body makes it very clear that this is true. It hurts me worse to know this, so it’s better to know.” Worst/best of all is watching Sally bond with the other man not only physically but emotionally—when, as Paul puts it, she’s “masturbating him with her mind.”

I wonder how the striatum is similar in kinky folk and different from the vanilla kind (if at all). Or maybe I need to stop thinking I’m on the cast of St. Elsewhere and just roll with it.

Oh, and the weird thing I think about when I meet some women is what they look like giving head. Or if they actually do give head. Or swallow. Or let their boyfriends fuck their ass. That kind of thing. So, if we ever meet, you’ll know I’m either thinking about your porn habits or imagining you with a big cock in your mouth. Sorry. Nothing personal. Can hardly control it…

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Born this way

After threeish weeks in the Looker 02, Belle decided she wanted the Steelheart back on. Also, unlike last year, when we leave for Spring Break, I’ll be left locked up as much as reasonably possible (excepting TSA checkpoints, scuba diving [easy to spot through a wetsuit], and if she wants the penis) since being free can sometimes lead to unacceptable emotional outbursts.

The Steelheart is, as I’ve said, the most unforgiving of all Belle’s devices. After giving her a nice, lengthy fingering last night (during which, I presumptuously started down to eat her pussy but was snapped back when she said, “Have I said I want that?”) I would have slept fairly well but was woken up four or five times by moderate erections I probably wouldn’t even have felt in the L02 or Jail Bird. The big one at 4:30 was ball-crushingly intense. Sooner or later, I’ll be able to mostly sleep through those, too, but right now there’s no way.

As I laid there waiting for the penis to back off (taking a leak barely took the erection down at all), I thought about how having the penis stuffed down a steel tube less than half its erect length was one of those intensely uncomfortable yet exhilarating and pleasurable dichotomies that seem to make up my entire sexuality. I also reminisced how penis compression is something I’ve kinked over for as long as I can remember.

My earliest sexual recollection was from when I was six or eight laying on my stomach on the living room floor watching Speed Racer. I discovered that rocking back and forth on my pelvis, squishing my little boy penis into the hard, nappy carpet, felt really nice. And, if I did it long enough, the most AMAZING sensation would happen. Fast, zinging jolts from the penis. Orgasm without ejaculation. That’s what I felt, even back then.

Dry-humping the floor became the sole way I masturbated (I didn’t jack off until I was 16). I did it a lot, even before I could come, feeling that crazy intense dry orgasm each time. I discovered that I liked it even more if I could get into position before the erection developed and rolled the penis up into my body so it was up inside me as it got hard. Rocking back and forth on that flat spot that shouldn’t have been there with my little hard-on all stuffed and stifled within may have been my first truly kinky fetish. If I couldn’t do that, I would ride my full body weight on the erection, balancing on it so no other part of me touched the floor. Hard, tight compression.

The first time I ejaculated, it was with the young stiffy stuffed up inside me. I left a gooey little mess on the floor. Interestingly, I recall thinking at the time that the orgasms without ejaculation were better than those with since they lasted longer. All that pulling and pumping at a dry well was more enjoyable than gushing success.

As I got older, I discovered my first of many pervertables: The small half of the plastic egg my mom’s pantyhose came in. I would cup it over the penis and my balls and get off on feeling the erection grow against the hard barrier. I would sometimes stuff it down my underwear and keep it there for as long as I could stand the sharp edge of the egg against my skin. I had to do this when I was alone, though, because it created a big bulge where one had no business being. Even that turned me on, though I recall wishing the eggs were smaller (and looking for suitable alternatives). I was well past the age of still using my mom’s pantyhose container for naughty purposes when I felt a distinct pang of regret discovering they started packaging them in boring cardboard boxes.

The pantyhose egg play transferred to hard cup and jockstrap wear when I was a young adult. Having a hard bump under my jeans instead of a soft package was hot (though, in retrospect, probably a lot more noticeable to others than I let myself think at the time). Even though it had ventilation holes in it, I’d still get home at the end of the day with a hot, sweaty penis to jack off furiously.

At some point, I picked up a dog leash made of a light chain. No idea where that came from as I didn’t have a dog, but I discovered I could wrap it all around my balls and the shaft of the penis and cause my erections to bulge purple. I experimented with all kinds of ways to configure it and tried to keep my mind off the task enough to keep the penis from becoming fully hard before the chain was in place, wrapped up and down the shaft. I’d try to jack off like that which was equal parts painful and pleasurable. Often, with one hand pulling the chain hard making the erection throb and strain, I’d twist and pull on my nipples and ride a dildo. Just luxuriating in the intensity of it all.

Note that at no time did I even consider what this meant. I didn’t think of words like “masochist” or “kinky” and always left these desires and practices walled up away from any concept of a relationship with another person. All this was before I shacked up with Belle.

So, that fateful day I was pursuing a sex toy website and stumbled upon male chastity devices, even though I had never seen one before, never thought about them as a thing that might exist, never consciously considered the idea of someone controlling my erections and orgasms even once, it was like a bomb went off in my head. I knew instinctually that I wanted that. I wanted to be in one. Wanted to feel my erection held tight and controlled. I knew what it would feel like before ever wearing one.

I don’t know enough to know if penis constriction is just another aspect of a general bondage kink or if it could stand alone as it’s own sort of kink, but I was born craving it. I was literally made for chastity.

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Lost in the sheets

I was away from Belle over the weekend. Thursday through Monday nights. I was having a nice time, but it was miserable not to be with her. Especially in the morning when the penis was pushing against the Trainer as hard as it can and my hand only found unfeeling plastic and not a hard shaft to play with.

I wish I knew more about the brain chemistry of love and attraction or that someone would do a study on the brain of a denied male. My feelings for her are made so much more intense by the lack of orgasm. My craving for her and her warm softness so much more acute by the locking of the penis. When I got home, I was all over her and her scent and lips and curvy female form made my heart flutter.

“I have to hear you orgasm,” I whispered into her ear.

Later that night, I snuggled up next to her under the covers as we watched Sherlock and as I ran my hands down her body they found the tubular shape of Pink, her favorite vibrator. My assumption was she put it there for me to use on her once Holmes and Watson saved London from terrorists, but no.

“Is that still there?!”

Turns out she had made the bed over it the morning before. While I was clawing at a compressed needy hard-on through its plastic trap, she was pleasuring herself with the little pink vibe. I instantly saw her in my mind doing this and could hear the thrumming rise and fall as she pushed it in and pull it out of her hot snatch.

And of course, I moaned. And melted inside.

I suggested christening her new dildo but she wanted my fingers and now we’re down to ninety-six. Even though I was horned up nearly to distraction, feeling her body tense with the wave of orgasm and then go limp in the afterglow triggered in me the need to sleep. So I did.

There’s a bit more to this one, but it comes with the standard NSFW warnings, so…

Continue reading “Lost in the sheets”

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My invisible closet

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

In the post, I said…

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

Then I said…

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

And then I said in a comment…

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

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

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

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

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

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Words aren’t helping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Nurturing my nature

Today, I’m feeling it. More than usual, lately. That sort of random and free-floating non-orgasmic anxiety that results from extended denial. I keep thinking about the penis. Keep having flashes of needy images. It out and hard in my hand. Stroking. Just jacking it. Sometimes while being fucked. A lot of non-specific erotic explosions at random moments.

The rule of Belle’s that I don’t play with it unless she tells me I can doesn’t much matter recently since I only get out of the device at those times she wants to fuck me. Typically, I get out the night before and am back in before noon the next day. I don’t have any opportunity to obey or cheat. I might be out four or five days in a month. So it’s a moot point. This morning, though, I expect I would have cheated. I have the need to feel a hard penis and milk it. To lick up my own ejaculate and feel it silky smooth over my tongue. I feel the need for some me-time. The time I don’t get anymore.

I am not complaining. Instead of getting to feel the pleasure of jacking off, she allows me to enjoy the feeling of being in her pussy. That’s the only penis-centric action she’ll let me have. In a weird and unexpected way, it’s frustrating because she’s taken away the way all men first realize what sexual pleasure can be. All men masturbate (those who can, anyway). The popular culture will tell you it’s a poor substitute for fucking someone, but in fact, a lot of the time masturbation is done only for the joy of masturbation. I can’t even remember the last time I masturbated like that. I think it was right after she let me fuck her and then allowed me to ruin an orgasm for the sake of my prostate. So, she was right there. Since then, though, only her pussy. Intentionally or not, she’s ratcheted up my already well-developed dependance on her for pleasure.

She’s nurturing my nature.

By nature, I’m all about sexual service. I want her to have pleasure above mine at all times. Even before we initiated the D/s overlay to our relationship, I always wanted her to come first. I’m obsessed with her pleasure. Big Blue is, to me, a natural extension (so to speak) of that desire. In any event, I’m wired to please before anything else. The denial and the chastity and the rest have all reinforced and extended that inclination. The other night, right after she got off on Blue so well, she told me I could fuck her. But, even though I had been hard as a fucking rock before Blue, I couldn’t get it up after. Not because I didn’t want her. I did. But we had been to a nice dinner before coming home for sex and I knew that, had I been on top fucking her, she would have been uncomfortable. I couldn’t stop thinking about that. I’d roll off and she’d play with the penis and I’d kiss her face and hold her head in my hand and the penis would start to stiffen but as soon as I got between her legs, it’d go flat again.

It even extends to why I like to fuck her. Of course, for all the obvious reasons, but also because I know she likes to be fucked. I know she likes to feel me on her and pumping into her. She like to feel my ass muscles flexing and my moderately hard and muscular arms wrapped around her, holding her close and tight. Basically, she get’s off on the feeling of a big man having his way with her. So, in my mind, half the reason I fuck her is because it feels good to me and the other half is because it feels good to her. That thought never leaves my mind. It can’t because if it does and I get too much into the part I feel I’m playing and I’ll lose control over my ability to stop the orgasm that invariably wants to manifest.

What I’m saying is, I don’t know that I’ve ever fucked anyone in my life for my own sake. Not once that I can recall. I’ve never used anyone as a hole for me to put the penis in. That’s just my inclination. I have been used as a hole more than once, but even then, I don’t have residual bad feelings about those times. To a certain extent, sex has always been about service to me. Now more than ever.

It’s even extended to a rewiring of my autonomic orgasmic responses. When I’m locked up and she comes, I start to feel the effects of the post-orgasmic refractory period. She comes, I feel sleepy and laconic. If I had an erection, it goes away. Rarely am I so turned on that this doesn’t happen. If I’m not locked up and she lets me fuck her, the quasi-refactory period starts after she tells me it’s time to stop. Often, I can feel that it’s time to stop before she tells me. Even when I’m still in her and having a good time, I can feel the penis start to lose pressure.

I even feel as if I know her orgasm as well as I ever knew mine. Sunday morning, after the night with Blue, I did as I usually do and tried to get her off before she was going to let me have a do-over from the night before. I could tell that it wasn’t going well. She asked for Pink and I, shortly after turning the little vibe on, knew it wasn’t going to work. I can just feel it. Like I’m tapped into her pleasure centers somehow. Enough to know that her orgasm wasn’t a lost cause so that I went back in with my fingers and got her off in matter of just a few seconds. I knew where and how to touch her. I knew that it would work.

I know I’m rambling.

I think about chastity and denial and how I sometimes wonder why everybody doesn’t live this way and why it’s good for some but not others and how sometimes, like with us, it goes really fucking deep and ends up with me never wanting to be allowed to come, forever wanting to come. Sexuality is such a crazy thing. So complicated. Infinitely complicated. Trying to interpret it is like trying to identify the individual pieces of glass while looking through a kaleidoscope. Seems to me that, when it comes to successfully using chastity and denial in a relationship as we have, it would be helped if at least one of the partners thought as I do. Pleasure is a service. Theirs should be a priority over your own.

You have to start somewhere.

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There’s a day for everything

From LBGTQNation:

Bisexual members of the LGBT community on Monday are celebrating the 15th Annual International Celebrate Bisexuality Day — also referred to as “Bi Pride Day” or “Bi Visibility Day” — to encourage bisexuals and their allies to be visible and proud of their bi identity.

Two things:

One, I didn’t know we omnisexually voracious people had a whole day to call our own. And Belle didn’t even get me a card.

Two, I didn’t know bisexuals had their own damned flag. But, oh yes…

Bisexual-pride-flag

Totally getting that as a sticker for my pick-up truck. Or tattooed on my ass. One or the other.

 

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Temporary insanity

Denial does some crazy shit to your head. At least, I find myself thinking and feeling things I doubt I’d have ever felt or thought back when I was having orgasms on a regular basis.

First example. The other morning, Belle and I were having sex. Which is to say, the penis was pushing with all its might against the Jail Bird’s bars while I fingered her and sucked her tits, etc. There was a hope she’d let me out and fuck me, but it wasn’t looking too good in that regard and she had already come so I figured my window had closed. But, the key-like thing was unexpectedly produced and the Jail Bird was off (grudgingly, as the penis was nearly totally hard at the time) and I was on top of her and ready to go.

And at the very moment of penetration, the most remarkable sensation of gratitude came over me. Literally in a cool wave I felt from head to toe the second the tip of the penis felt the hot, wet confines of Belle’s snatch. There was a time in the less than great days of our relationship where I felt resentment at Belle for not having sex with me. I felt entitled and it made me angry at her for not letting it happen. Of course, there were a lot of other things going on back then, but I felt a real sense of injustice at the fact that she had all the power in that regard.

Now, it’s all been turned on its head. Of course, she still has all the power over sex. When, how, what. And now I fucking love it. The difference is, obviously, it’s a consensual thing. I’ve willingly given up any claim or entitlement as her husband and have embraced what I think is her natural right to manage our sex life as she sees fit (even with my suggestions or input, she makes all the final decisions).

And that feeling when I entered her. That feeling of pure blue gratitude that she’d let me do it. That she was willing to indulge my desire for it solely for its own sake. It made me so happy. It made me feel so cared for and loved. It wasn’t a new sensation, to be sure. I’ve felt that way before, but not often so sharply and acutely. It was remarkable.

The other example was from yesterday. I was sitting with an employee in a coffee shop and I was giving him performance feedback, etc. It wasn’t the easiest conversation, actually. Not confrontational, but not warmly positive, either. We were sitting across from each other and the sun was coming in behind him and all of a sudden I thought several things all on top of one another.

I wonder what his cock is like…? I bet it’s a fat one.

I wonder if he’s ever gotten a blowjob from a guy?

God, I want to suck his cock.

NO, seriously, what in the actual fuck is that all about!?

Thing is, I don’t find the guy especially attractive. He’s not bad looking (could be considered cute by some), but he’s not my type in any way. And I’m literally old enough to be his father. I’ve never had any kind of sexual thought about him in the seven months I’ve known him. And, in the middle of this pseudoreview, I was thinking seriously impure things about him for about 3.7 seconds. It was one of those middle of the sentence, train of thought losing, stopping and saying, “…um,” kind of moments.

This sort of thing has happened before. I recall once being in a professional situation with four young women (two employees and two clients) and suddenly feeling intoxicatingly turned on by all their hair and nice smells and pretty clothes. It’s all so sudden and intense and real. I assume it’s hormones. Has to be.

Of course, it happens most with Belle.

The thing I’m really curious about is how those sudden flashes of sexual desire work with otherwise straight guys. Do they ever feel that way about another dude? Or no. My presumption is that the constant (usually) low level of sexual frustration would act as a corrosive element against the expected sexual norms imposed upon us by society (assuming, as I do, that most of us have a small touch of the gay hiding within). I know that I think about cock A LOT more now (hence the several and gratuitous cock shots on The Portfolio – such as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,  etc.), but I think about everything sexual more now. Do those straight guys ever feel an unexpected stirring around another dude? Or does their compulsive Tumblr surfing ever turn up an image of a big hard dick that makes them pause and stare? Does it freak them out?

Honestly, I’d be surprised it if it didn’t happen.

Posted on

Sorry for the confusion

My recent missive “How I know I’m not gay” seems to have caused some head scratching. Reader Ms Mahler said…

Hm…not to send you back to your 20s angst, but you do realize liking pussy doesn’t stop you from being bi? And there is nothing wrong with being into pussy AND curious about what it would be like to be dominated by a man?

And EsotericNonesense replied…

I’m a bit confused. I didn’t know there was ever any question as to whether or not Thumper was gay. You would think all the pussy licking and fucking (when Bella allows it) would be evidence to the contrary.

And patrick opined…

when to know if you are 100% gay, I’m sure absolutement not; but 100% straight, I doubt it. Just look at your porfolio. But is it really a problem?

I guess I have this idea that everyone who reads me has either always read me or has gone back to read me from the start or can somehow just absorb this whole blog via some kind of alien tentacle osmosis process or something. No, I am not gay, but I’m hardly straight, either. I’ve gone on about it here, here, over here, and most recently there (among other places). I like to think of myself as queer (as in, not amongst how the masses identify). Not gay. Not straight. Just me. Willing to fuck (or, more likely nowadays, be fucked) by anyone of any gender.

I came up with the title and concept for the post “How I know I’m not gay” while listening to Dan Savage during recent long hours driving. He’s said several times that gay guys don’t like pussy. It’s kinda what makes them gay. And I thought, huh, if only someone had spelled it out so plainly for me back in my “o god, what the hell am I?!” phase. I do love the cock. Truly. But I also love pussy. As I said. So, ipso facto, not gay. But also not straight. Commonly referred to as bi (though I hate that term).

I like how Harry said it…

The very best thing about [pussy]… It’s an integral part of this woman, this very loving woman, who shares your/my life…

At first I was like, whoa! We share the same woman!? Then I got it. And I think he’s right.

Patrick went on to say in response to my suggestion Belle may not have been serious about the pro domme thing…

when the sugestion your “Belle”, I do not think it was just a joke. the image that I made about ​​your “Belle” through your blog is that she is a very sensitive, intelligent woman, open-minded and listen to your needs. I think she read you from the beginning of your meeting, and it is you she has chosed. I think she planted a seed in you to enable you to flourish…

That’s possible. She hasn’t brought it up again. Maybe it was serious, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was one of those not serious serious things. I dunno because I haven’t mentioned it to her because I still don’t even know what to make of it. She will be reading this, though…

I told Belle a while back that one of my best friends from childhood (and the best man at our wedding) had opened up his relationship with his husband. Their sex life had petered out (pardon the pun) so they did what a lot of gay couples end up doing (probably more than straight couples do in general, though that might be changing). She didn’t react well to that idea as a concept and thought it was more a symptom of their problems than a possible solution to them as I did. In any event, I don’t know if the whole “sharing” thing is something my Belle could ever wrap her head around completely. I know from experience that my love for her and sex outside our relationship don’t cancel each other out. That is, when I cheated on her (yes, I did that, too, newbies) I ended up feeling more passionate about my relationship with her than before. What I did and how I went about it was all wrong, but that experience and what I’ve learned about relationships and sexuality since both inform how I feel about it today.

In any event, to those who were confused by my odd admission of non-gayness, I apologize.