Saturday, March 9, 2013

Signing Off



One reason why I stopped watching TV about twenty years ago was the irritating accompaniment to its banality called laugh track. The other reason was the broadcasters’ need to provide a prompt for those too stupid to know when they were supposed to laugh at something assumed to be funny. It is not known when the modern human appreciation for humor came to be. Our knowledge of such is gleaned from hieroglyphics at best, and cave walls of Neanderthals at worst, most of which are open to wide interpretation. 
Nevertheless, prompting all of us to" LOL" under any circumstance is an insult to those who know funny from crud. Canned laughter even in the birth of bulletin board (really archaic data) chatter was lame, now it is stuff that you need to wipe off your shoes on the nearest TV programming personality. I can amuse myself by thinking of funny things, but that is akin to tickling myself: it goes only so far as far as humor is concerned. Consequently, is it necessary to point out that “I just said something funny, therefore, I am rolling on the floor laughing out loud, or as the terminology goes, 'ROFLOL?'” If I did say something funny and you did not think so, "ROFLOL" will not make you do the deed. Neither will canned laughter make an otherwise banal so-called sitcom funny. I can laugh at my own pace, so please don’t prompt me. Humor is another quality that is in the eye of the beholder.

On another subject: in my introduction to this blog I said,
“…I will try to stay with the subject of my trip in a Female Led Relationship (FLR). I call it a trip because my enjoyment is mostly in getting there. Once there, the purpose of the trip will have been achieved, and we will reap the benefits. But when the struggle is gone, so is the challenge, so is the edge. I choose to see it as an incremental refinement of our understanding of what we want. We don’t really arrive, but experience the way to get there. The road remains open to a lot of adventures. There is disappointment, anger, boredom, but mostly joy along the way.”
It seems that we have arrived. We came a long way, and had fun. Then that notable moment came when, in retrospect, we could have asked, “Is this the last time …?” But we did not ask, for we did not know that it was the last time. We never know until we look back. The trip is over. We are all ingrates.

Here is my profound statement that you are welcome to remember and quote as long as you attribute it to me, “Love unfulfilled by sex is love lost.” In my case there are mitigating circumstances. Love and sex have been there all along. Love still lingers. My love for MW has not diminished. I know she loves me, and my heart melts when I think of her. What has changed is the sexual content. I have said more than once that any reasonable relationship between a man and a woman relies on sex. Take away the sexual component and the relationship changes to where it no longer resembles the former. We are committed to each other. I serve her without complaint, without reserve, truly and willingly. I remember the love that we have shared over the decades, our progeny, our fun of the last years of FLR. It was ours and will remain in our memory as the best times in our lives.

Alas, life has a way to throw a monkey wrench into the machinery. MW has never been easy with respect to sex. She has been shy, reserved, and take only so much of the tremendous amount that I had been willing to give. With all of my hormone-induced effort I managed to glean a small fraction of what I needed, yet I remained willing to serve her with the diminutive return because when she rewarded me, it was heavenly. I am talking about sex. Love is and was there all along, but love unrewarded in sexual ways has a way to be channeled into something else. Love without sex is like your favorite hamburger with French fries but without the fat, the salt, and the flavor. Paraphrased from Crocodile Dundee, “You can live on it, but it tastes like shit.”

All along we relied on Her sexual needs, for mine were overwhelming, and I managed to keep it in control to attune it to hers. The FLR style of late in our relationship was perfect, for sex was up to her needs, and I had nothing to say about it. She was happy with it, and her happiness was my continuous joy.

It is now four years later, and nothing is happening.Four years in the life of a young person is significant, but it can be dismissed, such as being in prison for some time, but once you are out you catch up. Alas, at my age, four years is very significant. What I had four years ago I no longer have. My strength, my virility, my health, my beauty are not as they were then, and will never be again. The joy of intimate sex with MW that we used to have but she withheld as of four years ago can never be made up. Even if we were to resume where we stopped our means have diminished, and the missed opportunities will never come again. As to whether we will try to resume sex, it remains to be seen. Even in the diminished capacity it would be welcome, but the prospect is dim. With the days passing it is less likely to happen. I still have many joys in life, but sex with MW as we knew it then is not among them. Whether I will be here to make another assessment in some years is not known. Unless that assessment is an improvement over the current situation, I will not do so.

Susan’s [former] pet signing off.


Saturday, March 31, 2012

Girls Passing

Few among you will appreciate my subsequent pontification. For one, you may not be attuned to esoteric dissertation along these lines. Then again, you may not give a shit. If you lose interest after half of the next paragraph, it means that you and I are not on the same wavelength. Still, I would like to know whether there are any of you out there who give a damn.

I used to like girls. Their lithe strutting on the athletic field twisted my psyche to lay myself at their feet in a manner of speaking. Acne notwithstanding I was willing to lay my soul in willing servitude if only they would acknowledge my presence in waiting along with all of my fellows in pain. We ached for their attention and vied for first in line if they ever allowed one of us to serve. Alas, we were inexperienced and naïve. Nothing happened that I would call memorable. Yes, we did exchange saliva from time to time, but no ownership on either side was assumed. Merely chance encounters took place regardless of all the plotting, planning, and arranging. These were prior to smart phones, television, and texting, Etc.

I matured in some ways, and became discerning in the selection. I began to distinguish between sexual attraction and deeper yet less primal feelings. Words became my tool in my fantasy where I imagined myself dealing with scenarios of wanted females who would appreciate me in some ways. Somehow they aged from the pimply silliness toward the curvy sanity that they demonstrated over my unbridled doglike slobbery attitude. Yes, I needed to show maturity to attempt to measure up to their superior attitude.

By the time I worked out the strategy, I was already behind. They wanted marriage with children in the plans, and a man reliable enough to pay the bills until … when? They simply played with me until finding out that I was not the one, and then they went on to other unsuspecting males to try again. Meanwhile I took time off from reality and did my manly adventures with guns and such. All it did for me was to want the sweet softness of females more than ever. It was as if I had fettered myself in order to make it easier for them to get me. Really, I wanted it. It happened, and I do not regret it.

Now, years later, I am still coping with the changing fauna of my environs. I still like girls, but it is now in a very different respect. Girls now are people whom I protect and treasure for their beauty, loveliness, and value. I am willing to die for them to protect them from harm and to give them a good life. The sexual component of my attention of youth has transferred to the total support for their success in becoming satisfied women in their own lives. As they and I age I appreciate their charms more then ever. My vista of female appreciation expands in depth and width. I no longer have strict rules about my former requirement. I enter any visage of female endeavor with an open mind. She may charm me with any attitude, aptitude, or attribute as she chooses. Maturity, intelligence, and calm demeanor will get my attention. Physical charms are on the same level, yet they are the first alert. I am now in more the protective mode then ever. I am alert to a woman needing help, or be protected from predators. I have become vulnerable to false needs. I am to be had for a penny. Females of any age can own me at a glimpse. I need a female to protect me from females.

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Debunk Still Another Site, Oh My ..

I have read with some interest a blog posted at http://www.msmariedmx.blogspot.com. She writes well. Her grammar is good, and the material sounds real. Actually, she may be real, at least to a certain extent. Then again, I am not the only reader questioning her veracity. I left a comment on the August 30, 2011 post as follows:

Your switch from a “good little housewife” to a dominant wife is admirable and appropriate. I am still trying to catch up with your earlier posts, so I may not have your current position assimilated. I especially like the outdoor shots of you and sissy. I find your narrative provocative, and your photographs enticing. You and your sissy are beautiful. I have a question, however: how do you manage to take your action pictures? Is there a third person who is taking the pictures? I have a devious mind, but I would have a hard time arranging these sexy pictures while I was in the foreground. Please give us a hint.
I was being kind to give her a chance to respond without being pressed or accused of anything. She did not respond. Well, at least she allowed the comment to be posted. The thing is, there is no way that she could have those photographs of her and “sissy” taken without a third party in attendance. Actually, most of the photographs are such excellent quality, that I assume a third person with great skill in commercial photography is doing it. I have no problem with that. However, I do have a problem with her presenting it as if it were just she and “sissy”.

There has been some controversy and comments on this blog and others concerning this same issue. I have no problem with it other than it being fake. No amount of covering her beautiful ass will explain the fact that some other person is taking the pictures when she and “sissy” are both in it. Given that, the question comes up, “What else is fake?” Is she fake? Well, she is taking care to cover her face, so she is probably real as a person. “Sissy” may or may not be real in the given scenario, for he has no face, no voice, no words, no thoughts, so he may not actually exist as her "sissy" other than an actor. As much as I would like to think that she has a real situation, I cannot accept the other conflicting presentations. So, unless she comes clean and explains the situation, I accuse her of being fake.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Oh, The Sexual Attraction ...

I drove to town today on some errands. None of them were worthy of note on this blog except one of my observations as I slowed the vehicle toward a traffic signal turning red. On the wide walkway to my right a woman was pausing to give her dog on a leash a chance to sniff the vegetation. My necessary preoccupation with driving in traffic prevented me from doing justice to the view that she presented. Nevertheless, the fraction of a second take was memorable, even worthy of thought later on the day. You all know that I am no longer a young man in my prime. I have done my deeds, and am trying to reap the benefits or fallout thereof. As a consequence, I have a wider range of appreciation for female beauty as opposed to those of you of much younger age.

My wife was next to me on the passenger seat of my car. She most likely missed the exquisite view that I retained of that creature. I could not say anything without arousing her wrath in the fashion that females do when feeling threatened by competition. It is a shame, for I wanted to share with her my feelings. Alas, some feelings need to remain private. This may have been one.

The fraction of a second image of a woman on the road was satisfying, and also provocative. She was underdressed for the time of day and season, but presented her features well. She was not in her younger days, but showed her self with grace and charm. Dog notwithstanding, she could have raised much support from males of all preference and age. I was just thinking, If I were free to date, how would I approach her, for surely I would be compelled based on her looks. My sweet wife was oblivious of my wayward thoughts and rightly so. I did not, and would not follow up on the provocative female with her dog. Yet, if I were free to do so, …

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Heartbeats Accelerating

Those of us who are terminal romantics have a problem with listening to love songs and as a result not getting drunk or harming ourselves in other ways. It is the case of just not having another way, constructive or otherwise, to serve a worthwhile woman for the moment.

It is not that I am in that way, at least, not to that extent. I have a worthwhile woman to serve. My problem is that I am aware of many other worthwhile women out there who need to be served, and there is no one to serve them. It may be a matter of ill-timing, bad vibes, problematic social skills, and many other ills. In most cases a one-time encounter with well-meaning loving man she could build her confidence. She could build her acceptance of the fact that she is desired by someone, and that someone is willing to care for her, and serve her, at least, in a one-time scenario. It need not be kinky. It need not be weird. It need not be sex oriented.

I am listening to Linda Ronstadt’s “Heartbeats Accelerating”. For many of you she is passé and old time. Still, one must give credit to accomplishment and to talent. She has had both in addition to being a beautiful woman. This song is heartrending, being emanated by a woman who is in need of love, perhaps lust satisfaction as well.
“Love, love, where can you be? Are you out there looking for me?”
She is reaching out for the part of her that is unfulfilled. Not sex, not sensual satisfaction, just love.

She is ready. Her workweek over, no plans for the days off, she hopes for someone to appear and take her away to joy.
“Will you come on a Saturday night
Maybe then the time will be right
Love, love, where can you be
Love, I am waiting
Heartbeats accelerating”
The tempo, the cadence, the melody, all support the mood of this needy lover. She is open to the outcome of the encounter, not dismissing the sensual aspects,

“When you steal into my room
What earthly body will you assume
Love, love, where can you be
Love, I am waiting
Heartbeats accelerating”
I love women without bounds. This is one of my wishes to be super hero, one who could multiplex my time and place to satisfy women such as this. No harm done, not regrets, no bounds, no commitments, just pleasing one person at a time in the way they would learn to be self-appreciative because they are loved, because they are beautiful.

Alas, I am only human. I can work only on one deserving woman at a time. Even then, I cannot change one person’s view of herself. We are our own worst critics.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

Was that a Reward or Punishment?

I had done some hard labor on the property in addition to my daily weight lifting. Not being as full of vigor as in my early days, consequently, I was dragging my ass toward the end of the day. MW noticed. She fixed leftovers for dinner, and we made a good meal of them. As usual, I would have begun to pick up the dishes in preparation for washing them. She said, “You will not. I will take care of them.”

Hm… Taking care of “them” is usually my job. The idea of her washing dishes is blasphemous. I tippy-toed out of the dining room and went back to wasting my time on the computer. An hour or so later I ventured into the kitchen and found the dishes in the sink waiting to be washed. Not having much to do for the evening I decided to do just that. Afterward I settled down with a book.

Some time later I was ready to shower, and then watch a movie with MW. As I crossed her path, she said, “Look at your reward on the bed. You may have it before or after your shower.” The only thing on the bed that she had neatly made was a bath brush. I was not in the mindset of expecting a reward, but I sort of guessed the intent of the brush, which was neither a shower nor a bath. I left the bedroom with some feelings of less than anticipation. Some time later when I returned she ordered me to lean on the bed and present my naked ass. I did, and waited for the rest that followed almost immediately.

I am not a pain slut. I do not like pain. Still, under some circumstances, pain is almost like pleasure. You know, you take what you get and don’t argue. Pain I did get. That plastic bath brush has features that accentuate the impact when wielded properly. She did wield it properly, and it hurt my ass something fierce. I don’t know why she stopped after about twenty strikes, since the visual effect was not immediately apparent. She let me go about my business after feeling the welts on my tender butt skin. Soon after that she had stopped me and ordered me to pose so that she could take some pictures of her administration of her rights. The reason for my punishment, or “reward” in her terminology was that I ignored her order of not washing dishes after dinner. After I showered she asked me how my buns felt under the hot water. She really cares.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Problem with Postings

I can post as before, however, I cannot respond to comments. This blog site, it is free so I should not complain, has stopped me from accessing the comments section of the posts. Those of you who left comments please do not think that I am ignoring you. I just cannot get to the place where I can either read or respond to you. In time it may be resolved, or I may find another way.

Wasted Chances

My patriotic friend is hanging in there, but the years have made an impression on him that, I am sure, he does not relish. He has never been verbose, but as the days go by he uses fewer words to express his needs or responses to queries by others about his views. He still writes, and I am amazed at the similarity of style that I have picked up from him. For all anyone knows, I could be writing all that. Except, I am not that good. I assume that I could be in some years. I could use the practice at least. In a small way some thought nags me, saying, “It’s not the years, dummy, it’s the wisdom that he has.” Yeah, right. Wisdom comes with years for some. Maybe for me. We will see.

He was more morose than usual, probably attributed to a recent acknowledgment of his mortality. He had tried to do some work on his truck that required lifting it so that he could slither under it to access the transmission. He decided that lifting the truck was not within his immediate priorities given his other options. After he had related the event to me I laughed, and said, “I did that some years ago, but would not want to do it now. Get a tow truck and have the dealer fix it for you. You have more important and less dangerous things to do.”

His subsequent musing was recorded partly by him in text, partly by me from memory.
I must have been in my forties when I realized that there were things I could not do such as I had done before. Running through the elephant grass as I dodged the bullets sprayed at me by the VC [Viet-cong] I had the feeling of “I’ll get you bastards, as soon as I get back to my truck.” I did get back, I did get my 50 caliber gun pointed, and did return fire. If I had to do it today, I would not be here to write this. I am now many years later although not necessarily wiser. One thing I have learned is that time is getting distorted. Anything that I do takes more time, but there is less time to allocate to it, resulting in less and less opportunity to do anything that needs to be done.
I will give you an example. I had a sweetheart whom I courted for some years. I got nowhere with her as far as sexual intercourse was concerned. It was fun and a challenge, but not blatant. I had plenty of time. Then things got in the way. I was in the Army, I was in Vietnam, gone for three years. During that time she met someone, and then … you know.
I was young enough to start again. I did. I did well. Still, there were things I meant to do, but did not so, for I thought that I still had time to do later. It is now later. Much later, and I have not the time. Even if I had the time, I do not have the means. A moment of pleasure missed yesterday is hours missed later, assuming that I had the means to suffer that pleasure. The opportunities that I had and wasted are gone. They will not come again. The capabilities that I had have diminished to where only wishes remain. Regrets abound. I now must plan a graceful exit from this world.
I was unable to deal with his statement. I could sympathize with his position, but was fearful of my coming to be there in turn not too long from now. I did not know what to say. I have had my own regrets of lost opportunities, and guessed what he felt.

I have lost opportunities over the last three years that I cannot recover. I am getting to be the age where an opportunity lost is lost forever.

Am I morphing into my patriotic friend?

We are inseparable. If he leaves, will he take part of me with him?

When he leaves, will I?

Friday, January 20, 2012

... Been There ...

Maybe I am just a bit too sensitive. Tell me. Have you heard someone say, “’Been there, done that?”


What does that mean?

Does that mean, “Ho hum, you aren’t telling me anything new here?”

Does that mean, “I’m with you, I’ve experienced it like you, but you’re boring me?”

Does that mean, “You schmuck, quit boring me with your drivel as if you ever had an original thought?”

Have you ever said “’Been there, done that?” and did not realize that you were insulting a person because of your repeating a common inane phrase without regard to its veracity or usefulness?

Alone

I wrote this a bit over a year ago.

I am free as far as messing with the little guy is concerned. I can do to him, with him, or he can do to me whatever our fertile imagination provides. Yet, it is not as good as it would be with MW.


MW is off on her annual week’s stay with her friends at a nearby resort. I drove her there and moved all their luggage and stuff into the units that they were to occupy. We had a nice dinner in the main unit, and, as usual, I spoke many words of double meanings and they were understood. They knew that I am a horny bastard ready to be used. With wine and spirits I may have had an excuse for my wise-ass comments. I assumed that MW would punish me for them, but she let me get away with them for now. That is both good and bad. I stayed overnight, and left mid-morning the next day to go home to allow the lovely ladies enjoying a few days of vacation.

I am now at home alone. I can indulge in my right hand gratification as much as I want. If she were to ask about it later, I would tell her. If she did not, it will remain between me and the little guy. I miss her. Her absence reminds me of how much I love to be with her.
Nothing has changed.

Friday, December 23, 2011

Bah Humbag

I am in a Christmas but Grinchy mood. I grew up in a sort of Christian home learning its principles and somewhat applying them. Over the decades of my development most of the rites and rituals wore off leaving me with only the principles that are essentially basic to our constitution of the USA. I can even say that I believe and practice most of the Ten Commandments, having exception only to one or two depending on the circumstances.

Christmas is a superposition of a Christian holiday on some long lost pagan commemoration of lore. It is supposed to be the celebration of the birth of Christ, Son of God. Fine. Keep it that way.

Even before the politically correct assholes began to object to keeping Christ in Christmas I had a problem. In my native country (not USA) the communist government renamed Christmas “Pine Tree Day”. You can imagine how well that was received by the mostly Christian populace. Later, being in a free country (USA) I was first exposed to Christmas music played in stores in an attempt to entertain the shoppers. This was a modern, electrified, version of the Christmas carolers of the days when recorded music was not widely available. Fine. I liked the music, just that, I did not really want to be subjected to being captive audience just because I happened to want to buy a loaf of bread. I learned to cope with it by spending less time in stores during the season.

Then the politically correct assholes came along supported by atheists who think that the “Separation of church and state” actually exist in the United States Constitution: no such thing. They began to object to the use of the word Christmas in any context. They still do, and try to figure out way to suppress the expression even on private property.

Over the years I became much annoyed with hearing “Frosty the Snowman …” and the like when out in public. I began to despise the “holiday season” for that reason, and also the commercialization of a Christian holiday: buy gifts that you cannot afford else you are in deep shit with your loved ones. The radio stations that I frequent at some point began to play Christmas music while abandoning their usual program. I stopped listening to radio until after the New Year’s Day.

Well, the politically correct assholes have had their way. There are fewer stores that play so-called Christmas music. That was fine with me. Then I had a revelation. I actually like Christmas music. Not songs about friggin’ Frosty, not the “fa-la-la” crap, not the “Chipmunks roasted on an open fire ..” not the snowy Santa fakery, but the traditional religious based Christmas music. They are melodious, they are inoffensive, and they are deep with meaning of tradition of the people who held their beliefs over centuries.

I am not a religious person, but I respect those who uphold their beliefs against opposing views. I tolerate any religion as long as it does not force me to see it their way or else they kill me. So, I am back to enjoying Christmas music, excluding the seasonal fluff from movies and third-rate would-be singers trying to cash in on the holiday. I love Christmas; I like the New Year’s events.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Is Nothing Sacred?

I have stumbled onto a blog much after its inception, and been faithfully following the plethora of posts with some pleasure. Starting to read it from its beginning I have not caught up with the latest, for I have other things to do in my life, so it will take time. The blog is written by a formerly tame, prim, and proper housewife whose expected and acceptable response to her husband’s request was “Yes Dear!” as she orally excited him as part of foreplay, followed by a through humping of her by the aforementioned husband. She had no say in how he ran the household. I gleaned this from her March 24, 2011 post. I will give you the link later. After a recent epiphany she now dominates him totally, including domestic duties, investments, choice of sex, and severe discipline and humiliation in public, with him as submissive. I think that the sudden role reversal that took place is questionable, but appropriate. I like to see such (assumed) wrongs righted. I wish I would be in her husband’s place.

The blog is well done. The writing is first class. The abundant photographs are excellent. The now in charge wife and the submissive husband are both beautiful. The scenarios that she, the writer of the blog, presents are enticing, and again, I wish that I would be in this man’s place. However, as we sometimes find out, when something appears perfect, it is not necessarily so.

In September this year, while I was still reading her earlier posts, I left a comment on her August 30 post of hers asking about who is taking the pictures when both she and “Sissy”, her husband, are in the foreground, which is most of the time. She posted my question, but had not left an answer as of now. I am still trying to catch up with the subsequent postings, so I am not sure whether my question was or is addressed before or after. My guess is that it was not. I will eventually catch up with her latest post and know.

I will say again that I like this blog. She, assuming that she is female, is an articulate writer who uses good grammar. Her subjects, narrowed to that of a dominant wife are well developed, interesting, and are likely based on someone’s reality. It could be that she and her partner have experienced much of what she presents, but not exactly as it is presented. It could be that the writer has hired a pair of models to pose for the pictures to document past reality or current fantasy. May people follow her blog but have not indicated doubt, rather, they are gushingly presenting their adoration. I may be the only one who questions the blog’s veracity. You may see for yourself, and let me know. At the least, you will be thrilled when you read about Ms. Marie.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Erection Prevention: Another Myth Debunked

Back in the dark ages when porno magazines were the only source of this sort of crap there was an ongoing theme of “ball busting” in which the poor recipient had his testicles crushed by a woman in some manner resulting in a condition that forced him to constant masturbation or else … the alternative was unclear. Once one lame brain male came up with this idea, others immediately copied it and related it in their own miserable invented context. The letters to the magazines from these readers were ripe with variations of the theme. Then the Internet happened, and later blogs came along, and the idea was picked up again, but this time on wider subjects, one of which was enforced chastity of the male.

Many creative short stories and blog posts have been written about men undergoing chastity by their request or at the insistence of their partner. Most of the time their partner is not aware of the practice, could not care less about it if she knew, and would not want to bother with the details of his latest kink. There is always something new that turns him on and he wants to try it at home. The good thing about that is that he actually tries to do it at home with his partner, as opposed to going to some professional key-holder or some ugly guy posing on the Internet as a female.

“So, chastity is his latest kink. Ho hum,” as she stifles her yawn, “What will he come up with next?”

He keeps wearing her down until she finally has enough and goes along with the device just to shut him up. He is now deeply in denial thinking she is in charge of sex now. Yeah! She drops the key into a drawer and forgets about it until he walks out of the shower sporting his paraphernalia, at which point she shrieks in a frightegned surprise.

The fantasy version is much different. She forced him to buy the chastity device, and then forced him to put it on and hand over the key. Whatever subterfuge or trap she used to get him to accept her terms remains in force, therefore he is powerless to resist. He is trapped in a hard unyielding device, never able to remove it unless she allows it. She decides when and how he experiences pleasure and pain, whereas he is obligated to pleasure her via oral and dildo manipulations, blah, blah, blah. You can tell this fantasy from reality by its stylized details.

The myth going along with that is that the chastity device prevents him from achieving any sort of erection. Well, maybe it does for one or two wearers, but if there is at least one man who will become erect anyway, then the myth is proven wrong. I have worn a few of these devices, and none prevented me from sporting an erection. Some of these devices allow the use of painful punishers, such as the points of intrigue that fit the CB x000 designs. These enhancements are cute, and are no problem when the little guy is flaccid. They become a fascinating source of erotic pain when one is titillated by the key-holder, but then the pain goes away after again being ignored. The problem comes up during a nocturnal erection that has nothing to do with sexual provocation. It just happens, and the points dig in. After a while the resulting pain wakes him, and he has to get out of bed and think of bad things, such as a water heater springing a leak and flooding the house. That will take his mind off the source of the pain, and then he can return to bed and sleep.

Even a casual study of the male anatomy will show that a chastity device will contain the erection, but not prevent it. So, when you read a blog and run across the claim that it prevented the erection, you will know it to be one’s fantasy similar to “ball busting” of the old.

Friday, September 30, 2011

What Makes Pornography Look Cheap?

My Usual Bitching Continues

I have harped about pornography on a few occasions. But, when one is hungry and only slop is available, one eats slop. I am presenting this in an anecdotal fashion, and then conclude with a subjective analysis. I am not trying to say what is right or wrong, just what makes pornography look cheap, unrealistic, and amateurish. It seems that any lamebrain with a video camera can now produce a video. They are always able to find willing “professional amateurs” with loose inhibitions to abuse or be abused for fame and some compensation. I hope that you can laugh at much of it even when it pretends to be serious.

If you have read my blog so far, you probably know the theme: Female Led Relationship. In my limited experience, that is very close to submission to a woman or women in general. This then sets the stage for my primary interest in erotic novels and movies that deal with the dominance of females over males, hence my preoccupation with femdom. I realize that there is a lot more to porno, but as usual, I will stick to my favorite subject. The rest of this post is primarily presenting pornography in terms of femdom genre.

The Nightmare
I awoke stretched out on my back in an ill-lit room. Several wood-looking beams with a single cross beam sporting eyebolts and hooks interrupted the smooth surface of the dark ceiling. Some eyebolts had chains hanging, and one in the center had a hoist with a chain and an electrical control hanging above me. My balls ached, and I attributed that fact to some strap around my package, which in turn was pulled taut by the hoist. I could move my head left to right, so I checked the area in the dim light emanating from shaded floor strips along the walls. The wall to my left had an elaborate Saint Andrew’s cross with eyebolts affixed. On both sides to the corners was furniture whose purpose I could guess, but not ascertain for the moment. One was like a child’s hobbyhorse without wheels or a head, but had straps on the four legs. Another was a short-legged wooden chair with some padding, but had a hole in the seat, roughly the size through which my head would pass face up. Above the furniture were horizontal boards attached to the wall on which instruments, and various crops, whips, paddles and straps hung, some gently swinging in the wind generated by the overhead fan. On my right were two credenzas. On the top of each were sex toys of the sadistic nature: dildoes, strap-on cocks, butt plugs, clamps and clips of a dozen nature and size, hand and ankle cuffs, chains, mask, and more. The far wall toward my feet was covered in cheap wallpaper depicting rough-hewn stones in some blue-gray color. Over the door at each end were fake arches of the same motif. Both doors were closed. The only items between them were a padded bench covered in leather, an ashtray on a tall pedestal, and an unlit floor lamp with several sources of light. 
I lay there trying to remember how I came to be in this place, but came to no conclusion. My last memory was that of watching a cheap pornographic video on my computer. After that I don’t know. The air in the room was cool but not uncomfortable on my naked skin. My wrists and ankles were strapped to a narrow table. I needed to use a bathroom, but was unable to move other than wiggle my butt. What seemed like hours later the door on the left opened, and a woman, or one, who appeared to be one, entered carrying a small tray. On the tray was a beer glass half full of some pale liquid, and a clip, the kind one would use to keep a bag of chips closed. As thirsty as I was, I hoped that she meant for me to drink that beer. She picked up the clip and applied it to my nose, essentially forcing me to breathe through my mouth. She then lifted my head and placed the glass to my lips, “Drink until the glass is empty,” she said in a deep voice. She tilted the glass, and I gulped before I realized that beer it was not.
I spilled only a small amount at which point she withdrew the glass and slapped my face on both sides. I reacted angrily, and said, “Stop that and let me get up. You have no right to do this to me!” I should have checked my cock before uttering this silly request. It was rigidly pointing at my face. 
“Shut up slave, or you’ll be sorry,” she hissed. She wore a tight red body suit made of shiny plastic. Her matching plastic boots with eight-inch heels on the platform came up to her crotch. The heavy dark makeup around her eyes looked deep as if hollowed into her skull. The exaggerated lips made up with a color matching her boots were clownish. The red fingernails were about three quarters of an inch longer than natural. I wonder how she manages to wipe her butt after, … I thought. She picked off one of the riding crops from those hanging on the wall, and struck my exposed cock, thus interrupting my assessment of this female. After that she left strutting on her high heels and skinny legs. I was alone again. 
The door on the right this time opened. An overhead light came on. A woman came in riding on the back of a naked man who moved on his hands and knees. The woman struck the beast’s ass with a riding crop at each step. She wore black leather panties about the size of a half of playing card cut diagonally. The matching top covered her breasts just barely. Black leather gloves covered her hands and arms nearly to her armpits. Halfway into the room she dismounted her beast and staggered to get her balance. She was wobbly on her platform boots with impossibly high heels. I wondered what would happen to her ankles if she lost her balance. Slipping from that height could break one. As she clopped to the Saint Andrew’s cross, she pulled the man by a leash around his neck, and again struck his butt with each step. As the man reached the cross, she screamed, “Get on your feet, slave!” She milled about for a few seconds apparently trying to decide what evil thing to do next. With each step she took on the hardwood floor I could visualize a heavily shod Clydesdale horse on cobblestones. Schmuck got off the floor but not fast enough before she struck his butt again and again. She pushed his back against the cross and began to attach his appendages to the cuffs at ankle and wrist levels. When done, she stood back to examine her work. Apparently satisfied, she clopped around the table on which I lay to the credenzas. She selected several clips and weights. She also picked up a gas mask that looked like a combination of a World War I flying ace full leather cap with an old style rubber hose used in diving. The hose would run from the mouth area down to crotch level. Managing to clop back to Schmuck she put her clips and clamps next to my head on the table, then manhandled the ersatz gas mask over Schmuck’s head. His eyes bulged behind the huge glass eye pieces of the device as he tried to yell in panic. The volume of his oral emanation was muzzled to about the level of an average groan. The skinny black-styled woman (somehow I assumed her name to be Black Mistress) picked up the end of the hose through which Schmuck breathed, and blew into it all of her lungs’ capacity. After getting her breath back, she held the end to her mouth again, and screamed into it, “All right you fucking maggot, I’m going to teach you some fucking manners. You’ll fucking call me Mistress, not Ma’m! You’ll be fucking sorry for being alive before I get through with you!” 
She dropped the hose, and grabbed the man’s balls, pulling them as far as the sac allowed. The man whimpered and tried to follow his balls’ trajectory in vain. She began to attach clips and clamps to the balls and the cock, and then hung weights to the metal hooks. She finished with two sturdy clips on the man’s tits. She pulled a cat-o-nine-tails looking device off the wall, and swished it to get the feel of it. After ascertaining the distance of her reach, she held the tips of the whip in her left hand, and then did a full stroke with her right hand as she released the tips. The tips landed on the man’s chest, and he jumped. She sneered at her helpless slave, “I’m going to whip your fucking tits off,” as she continued the strikes to his chest. After a few strikes she clomped back and forth perhaps for effect, but apparently no reason. She stopped and kicked the weights hanging from the man’s balls, sending them swinging. Schmuck groaned. She kicked again snarling, “I’m going to fucking rip your fucking balls off.” Her last kick caused some of the clamps and weights to fly off in different directions, getting quite a reaction from the man. For good measure she raised the whip again, holding the tips, and then struck at Schmuck’s genitals. He had a hard on before, but it was quickly going away now. 
She noticed my own erection as she turned toward me. This time she did not hold the tips, but swung with full force front and center. Those tips were not hard, but they came with high speed, and stung like a hive of bees. “You fucking voyeur,” she screamed at me, “Close your fucking eyes or I’ll have my slave sit on them!
"Better yet, I’ll do just that,” she said, and then yelled for her slave. The red-clad woman who was there earlier came in. “Sit on this slave’s face,” Black Mistress said, as she pointed to me. Red Slave got up onto the table behind my head and then knelt on both sides. 
“No, no,” Black Mistress screamed, “Open our crotch first.” 
Red slave unsnapped her crotch. A somewhat small but erect cock snapped forth before she deposited her butt on my face, thereby shutting off any view of the activities. She wiggled her butt while I tried to breathe. I could only hear what Black Mistress was doing. After some chain rattling and clomping I heard her again yelling at someone to move his ass.  She ordered Red Slave to get her the biggest strap-on. Red Slave got off my face, and did as her mistress ordered. I could now see Black Mistress tediously strapping on the dildo. Schmuck was draped over the padded hobbyhorse with his ass at ninety degrees from my point of view. Black Mistress moved behind Schmuck’s ass. Without much preparation she jammed home the enormous device. Schmuck was now free to scream since the fake gas mask lay at his feet. Black Mistress began to pound his ass and soon she moaned “Oh yeah,” every few seconds interspersed with “Take it you fucking slut! I’m going to ream your fucking ass up to your fucking chin,” and the like. It must have been a sympathetic orgasm when she finally stopped. She was looking satisfied, yet she had not lost the permanent sneer on her face. Red Slave was standing on the side masturbating while groping her womanly breasts through the shiny red plastic. 
Black Mistress turned to me, “Now it’s your turn, you fucking pervert. First we make sure that you don’t see what’s coming to you. “Slave, get up on his chest and stick your dick in his fucking mouth.” Red Slave eagerly complied. As she carried out the order I felt my other cheeks also parted as Black Mistress moved in for the final act. 

My own snoring woke me. The computer monitor before me on my desk still had the final scene of the video that I was watching when I fell asleep. I was leaning back in my chair as I looked around fearfully, for my wife could have, or maybe she did walk in to see me in that compromising position. I quickly killed the browser, and went to make a cup of coffee. Apparently she had not caught me. I could reset my fear counter and try again next time.

 Analysis in Very Subjective Terms

In the short story above I may have overdone the presentation in many respects. My purpose was to include many of my favorite idiocies used in pornography, so the story may not be as smooth as it would be if I had tried a “real” one. If you want to see a “real” story, see my book, “Jason’s Deliverance” as described in the side bar of this blog. My objection is not to the category of porno, for we each are titillated by slightly or greatly different things. I am objecting to the implementation.

While I read blogs dealing with my favorite subjects I run across videos that the bloggers thought were great. I am easy to entice into trying them myself. Then one thing leads to another, and I get more than I need or want. With the exception of some one-time-amateur productions, I have developed an aversion to the entire genre now available in erotic videos. Although the theme of some categories is still enticing, the implementation sucks. I watch the short free clips for a few seconds or a few minutes, skipping forward just to see what is there. I have never paid for one. I figure that if these free clips irritate and bore me, the long movie version will put me to sleep. My pet peeves of stylized porno are the following:

Platform boots or shoes: The original idea for platform footwear may have born from wanting to increase the height of the heels. I don’t see the need to go past what looks good, but we all have our kinks. There is a limit before the wearer is walking with toes pointed straight down. So, to increase the height of the heels from, say, three inches to five, add two inches of platform, and you have it. The effect is ridiculous. The sexy effect of the original idea is lost because of the implementation in a clunky and dangerous manner. I know it is a matter of taste, but no sane woman would wear platform shoes or boots to go to any place other than the few feet from her car to the front door of some D/S party. She may as well wear stilts if she is trying to look taller.

Stylized femdom wear: By definition, a dominant female (femdom) wears weird corsets, is naked between her breasts and thy-high stockings, wears gloves up to her biceps, wears fingerless gloves, wears harnesses made of metal, leather, plastic with lots of rings and chains, studded dog collar, tall boots, military hat, and smokes cigarettes through a foot-long cigarette-holder. She never goes anywhere without a whip and a riding crop. Obviously she cannot have all of these femdom things on at the same time, so there are many outfits looking different, but unmistakable femdom.

Plastic/rubber attire: While I don’t make fun of those who prefer it, I make fun of those who think that it makes femdom or submissive of the person wearing it. Once on, how can one tell who is dominant and who is submissive? Personally I find rubber and plastic even in small quantities uncomfortable, smelling bad, and ridiculous under the circumstances. But that is just my opinion.

Gas masks: This one is ridiculous. Why would anyone want to use a gas mask in sex play? I might see some use of a full head mask in sensory deprivation play, but one must be careful with that.

Facial masks and head masks with eye, nose, and mouth holes: This is a little less ridiculous than gas masks, but it is close. It does not impede the submissive who wears it, so why put it on? Is it perhaps to allow Joe Blow from next door to act in two-bit porno and not be recognized by his wife or his buddies? That is rather unfair to the dominant who does not wear a mask. Why not add flippers and rubber duckies?

Screaming dominas: They are screaming idiots. If they are not intelligent enough to explain their agenda in a calm tone, especially in view of the usually bound and gagged submissive, then they should not be allowed to wield a riding crop. It is like handing a loaded gun to an unstable person.

Sneering dominas: A dominant woman, or one acting like one, need not sneer, snarl, or try to look mean. She can impart the look of dominance with feeling rather than grimacing. Sometimes showing emotion, sometimes withholding emotion can accomplish more than these faked grimaces. The permanent or repeated sneer looks irritating and stupid. Even a teenager will look normal from time to time, why should not an adult dominant woman?

Ungainly and purposeless clopping on hard floor: This happens when a domina can’t think of the next move since there is no script. So she walks in her high heels or platform-wear on a hardwood floor. After a few seconds of it one wants to hit the fast-forward or the stop button on the video.

Usage of “fucking” more often than every three words: See, for example this video. I have been know to use the word, but seldom more than once in the same sentence. When used in every sentence, it becomes irritating in a hurry especially when combined with screaming.

Lack of direction, ad-hoc and arbitrary acts: This is the earmark of the lowest class porno. It has to do with adlibbing the scenario. Some people can do it; others just end up looking stupid.

Locked into stylized femdom with no originality: If you have seen a dozen men being whipped by skinny females, you have seen them all. They may vary the number of victims or perpetrators, they may vary the background, they may add a few twists, but the result is the same. There is no reason for the scene other than punishing or mistreating some poor schmuck who appears to enjoy it regardless of the pain or degradation. If only they would add some plausibility to the scene, and be able to make it look real! However, even when they try, it is blatantly fake.

Amateurish use of whips: I call these dominas professional amateurs. They are professional since they do it for a living. Yet they are amateurs, since they obviously have not educated themselves on the use of their main instrument. I have never whipped anyone, so I am not the expert here. On the other hand, I know how to use a whip. If you have seen any Indiana Jones movies you will recall that he picks up the whip in one hand, and wields it. He does not hold the tip in one hand, while beginning the strike with the other.

Naïve use of toys and tools: The domina is given a box of stuff to use to make the video entertaining. She picks up a pair of pruning shears, and applies it to the genitals of the submissive. The only thing she can do after that is to put it down before she is charged with a felony. It reminds me of Eddie Murphy in the movie, Golden Child, in which he yells, “I’m gonna row your ass!” An oar is just not the right instrument for the purpose.

Brainless, purposeless activity: I usually ask myself, “Why is she doing that?” It is like splicing together a few seconds of unrelated movies that did not make sense in the first place.

Fake dungeon walls: This is just professional crap. It looks cheap and their production is cheap.

Faking orgasm: It is all right to fake one when appropriate. It is also distracting when inappropriate. See “Oh yeah”.

“Oh yeah”: Repeatedly moaning this while faking orgasm even as she is using a strap-on dildo on some man. In the throes of passion one tends to lose inhibition, and will say and do things never thought of normally. After the first “oh yeah”, however, one wishes that she would just shut up.

                                                                          ***


Monday, September 5, 2011

Ephemeral

With mankind’s having a relatively short life span relationships must be squeezed into short periods. For example, a man finds a woman who is perfect. He is in lust with no restrains. After a while he finds out that she has brought baggage, which he does not want to handle. Even while this were not to surface at an early date, she might find that he is not the perfect dildo that she assumed: he had idiosyncrasies that will cost her grief and time on the long run.

Am I saying anything new here?

We have either read about this or experienced it or both. So why is it that we start the perfect relationship, we write (blog) about it, and then it comes to an end? The reason is hope. Hope is irrational. Hope is illogical. Hope is nonsense. What we do is ignore rational reasoning, we ignore logical conclusions, and we go with feelings knowing that they are not based on reality. Predictably, the hope-based relationship fails, and then we are into another similarly ill-fated relationship.

It is a wonder that some relationships last. I happen to be in one. We have tried most of my fantasy things, and they worked for a while. I assume that we could have tried all of my wife’s fantasies and achieve the same. The problem is that any fantasy that is not part of one’s everyday routine requires effort by one or both partners. Putting forth the effort is where the implementation of the fantasy fails. You wake in the morning, you do your work, and then, you think of the obligation you have to fulfill your partner’s fantasy. Unless it is also your own fantasy, at some point you will think, “Fuck it! It’s not worth my effort.” And then the implementation of one’s fantasy is over. It may also be the relationship that is over if it was based on the fantasy alone in the first place.

I read blogs of happy couples with aberrant sexual habits: chastity, orgasm denial, cuckolding, sadism, and the like. They thrill me as I read; yet I am aware of their ephemeral nature. I have not yet read a blog where the author said, “This has worked just fine, but I am now too damn old to continue writing, so this is it. Good bye.” What I read instead is the lack of further postings on these formerly fascinating sites. It is as if the author has died, or his/her theme reverted to vanilla. That, or they have split. The question I have is this: “Are you in a long term aberrant sexual relationship that has lasted more than a few years?” If so, please speak, for you may be one of the few who survived.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Chastity Revealed

I read a fair number of blogs by men who are into wearing chastity devices. Most of them are newbies as I judge by their exuberance over the potential not yet attained. Those who have been through the trials of hardcore long-term chastity are few. Those are whom I admire to a certain extent. These few men have, what is left of, “balls”, albeit, contained in some evil device. They are the ones who don’t mind wearing plastic when traveling using airports. They are the ones who brave the outside world with practically irremovable chastity devices when they drive to work, or go to the hardware store on a weekend.

My wife and I have been playing with this for some years. I was somewhat the same way as the guys I describe above, but I never became comfortable with it. Sure, I could take the pain and the abuse, even a potential embarrassment, but I had my misgivings all along. In a private setting, my wife could and should cause embarrassment by demonstrating the device that I wear for her amusement. I would welcome and love being examined by her friends, even by her friends’ partners, as I melt into a puddle of embarrassment with only the chastity device staying up front.

However, there is a different setting. For one thing, my being in law enforcement, I am always in a potentially difficult situation. Let’s face it; some of us, once in a while, end up being victims of crimes. An ordinary citizen in that situation would be embarrassed, but get over it. Being a law enforcement officer wearing a device while also being a victim would be at the end of his career. After that one time when my wife made me wear one of “Kali’s teeth bracelets” on the job, I explained to her that our future was on the line, and any evidence of my being pussyfied must be kept private and separate from the profession. After that we went with the pretense that I was not pussified by her, unless I was at home. One can imagine that I gave this much thought while wearing the chastity device at her bequest at home, therefore, coming up with the conclusion that it would cost us much to take a chance. My wife being of sound mind knew who buttered her toast, so she agreed.

There are several points of view about being exposed while wearing a chastity device. I will present only two, both of which are from my perspective, but then you can draw you conclusion based on your situation. The general situation is that when you do your own thing, it is harmless, and it is nobody’s business if you and your partner decide to lock up your private parts. I go along with that one hundred percent! The pisser is what I present in my remaining two points of view below.

Being a legitimate and honest law enforcement officer has severe requirements. One cannot just become a policeman. One must pass rigorous tests to just enter the field, and then be pitted against other applicants before being considered for the job. One’s background must be clear of criminal activity, including mundane subjects such as past and current drug usage. Once on the job one must maintain exemplary behavior for the rest of his career. We are held to a higher standard than the citizens whom we are protecting. Any hint of scandalous behavior may be the end of one’s livelihood. Those on the outside might call us sexist and some other names probably being correct in their assessment. It would end a man’s career to be caught in a homosexual act, or to admit to one. The fact is, there are homosexuals among us, just as there are sexists, but we keep it private. We also live with our female officers as equals, but consider them special people: they are to be protected as we would protect our little sisters. There have been deadly self-sacrifices by men in attempts to save the women in law enforcement. Call us sexists, but that will not change.

Being considered less than a man by my peers would be the end of the line. We joke and tease one-another in sexist ways, but we never insult unless there is a reason. Once insult is given, it cannot be revoked, and at the least, one will resign from the job. My peers finding out that I wear a chastity device on the job would give them cause to ostracize me to extinction. That is because I would be deemed less than a man.

The other aspect of wearing a chastity device has to do with a sudden revealing of a person’s private practice in view of unplanned inspection by others. I can imagine many scenarios, but the most likely is when you are handled by paramedics or jailers.

Paramedics and emergency room personnel with experience can say that they have seen it all. A victim wearing any kind of chastity device will be embarrassed if conscious, or be so after regaining consciousness. The devices have been removed using the expertise of locksmiths, on-site bolt cutters, and in rare cases, welding torches wielded by professionals. The good thing about this is that the episode does not affect the victim’s future by tying it to his public record. It may make a good anecdote for one to talk over cocktails, but does not change the course of his professional life. Then there is the other aspect of being found wearing a chastity device.

An ordinary citizen seldom worries about being arrested by the police, for he does not purposefully do illegal acts for which he would be caught. The thing is, shit happens. Much of the time it has to do with driving a vehicle and/or being an asshole. He is arrested and taken to a jail. He will be asked to hand over any jewelry to the jailer, so that it can be recorded and then put into a safe place pending the victim’s subsequent release. The first problem he might have is deciding whether or not to disclose the chastity device to the jailer. He might assume that it is not the jailer’s business. True to a certain extent, but that is not really the issue. The jailer’s concern is to go with the rules. He does not give a damn what kind of jewelry is in question. On the other hand, if the victim were to take his device intact into the jail (assuming no metal parts which would be detected), he will immediately face the problem presented by his newly assumed peers: they seldom go easy on such an obvious victim. If, on the other hand, he decided to disclose his captive private parts to the jailer upon what we call intake (the processing of the person to be jailed), then the device would be removed even to the point of destruction, and properly documented. Aside from the ridicule and discomfort that the victim would endure, the fact would become part of his record. Strangely, this schmuck's chastity device history would be conveyed to the jail’s denizens somehow. Mister schmuck would become somebody’s girlfriend in not time, just as if he had sashayed through flaunting the device on his parts in the first place. Bruno in the upper bunk would expect to be serviced, and he probably has friends with similar needs.

So, if you want to wear your device when going out in public, have fun. Just keep in mind the potential consequences. If you are into humiliation, you might just get it.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Stand Like a Man! Indoor Plumbing and the Modern Man

I have lived in and traveled Europe and the Orient. During those times I saw and practiced widely varying modes of personal cleanliness, and was exposed to wide variety of personal waste disposal customs: as the transliterated saying goes, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” I have not seen it all, but I have seen and done a lot. After I settled in the USA I was and remained in euphoria over the opportunities I had to keep myself clean to my satisfaction, and to use the indoor toilets that we have. This is a much wider subject than the basic theme of my post, but I needed to zero in on the pressing issues in a controlled fashion: from a broad scope to the narrow, somewhat like the function of a urinal.

We have all heard jokes and anecdotes about how men leave the toilet seat up. The assumption is that men are wired for standing to urinate, and no millennia of evolution or nagging by the women is going to change that. As for not learning to put the lid down, some men have said, “I have learned to put the lid up. Why don’t the women learn to put the lid down?” Seems fair, but that is really not the issue here. The issue is standing to urinate. I listen to a radio station that changes hosts a number of times during the day and night hours. One of the hosts is a feisty little man with strong opinions. He is smart and witty and has a sense of humor especially when the joke is on someone other than him. I imagine him strutting around like a rooster to make sure everyone knows he is all man without a doubt. In his opinion, stated a number of times, “Only a wimp or a woman would sit to urinate. Men do it standing!” Right. It is how men are raised even in today’s metrosexual society. If they could get away with doing number 2 standing, they would. That would be manly.

During my early years in one of the wars we often heard a phrase, “collateral damage”, usually uttered by liberal reporters who were safely sipping coffee at their desks while writing about how we were killing civilians. I liken the fallout of a man’s standing while urinating to collateral damage. I am not saying that his aim is not true. I am not saying that he misses on purpose. I am saying that when I am down on the floor with my face inches from the toilet and the surrounding walls, I am offended by the smell. I hate to clean up after inconsiderate males.

I was dating a girl who had three younger brothers. On one of my visits I asked to use the bathroom, and one of the boys pointed to a powder room off the hall. The condition of the place was shocking. Later it came up in conversation with my girl friend. She said that powder room was referred to as “The black hole of Calcutta,” basically used only by the boys. When I stay in someone’s house or in a hotel, I eventually have to use the bathroom. Sweet smelling deodorizers notwithstanding my nose tells me when someone has repeatedly missed the toilet bowl. In a hotel I can call housekeeping and have them remedy that. In someone’s home that would not be appropriate, so I grin and bear it. All of this is a result of the demonstrated manliness of the users of the facility.

It was not until I was married that I began to clean bathrooms. My wife and I shared the workload of raising children, so I did whatever I could to help. That is when we both decided, at the risk of raising wimps and sissies, to teach our boys to sit on it. At home they were encouraged to sit while urinating. If they missed, we showed them how to clean up. By the latest census they are still virile males without doubts about their manliness.

There are, however, mitigating circumstances. In an unclean restroom, whether private or public, I choose not to sit, so I appreciate the ability to flip the lid and let go. If there are urinals, I use them. My objection to standing is strictly based on consideration for the person who has to clean up after me. At home that would be me.

A few years back my wife and I decided that I should have a Prince Albert piercing. You can see one of the pictures at My Pierced Member. Before the piercing I could stand and hit a cup at six feet with my stream. With the jewelry in place the stream was more like a hose nozzle set at wide spray. I quickly realized that I might have reduced control of the stream while standing and using a urinal. The other item of more problematic nature was the occasional use of a chastity cage, which also manifested itself only while I had to stand. The obvious answer to both problems was to sit. This brings me to the amusement that I get while reading the blogs of men who are in a chastity relationship. At some point they realize that they have to sit. Well, if that does not turn them into sissies, what does? That should at least make it easier for them to clean the bathrooms. Sissies do clean bathrooms? Don’t they?

There is nothing wrong with a man standing under the circumstances. It is a small enough pleasure that should not be begrudged by anyone. This is especially true if they are the ones cleaning the bathroom regularly. I am just not convinced that standing makes a man more manly. Can any of you give us a good reason to stand other than the ones I have stated?

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Stand Like a Man! A Tongue-in-cheek Look at Manly Urination

Lest you think that I have lost my sense of humor I respectfully submit this treatise to demonstrate otherwise. I generally don’t dwell on the subject of male urination, but since many of the blogs I frequent are into chastity devices for men, the subject comes up often. I felt it was time to address it from my point of view. The subject is “Should men stand or sit while urinating?” First I cover a bit of history.

The Early Days ...

Before the early man came out of the trees, he could do it while sitting on a branch, just as a woman could. Still, he had the equipment to direct the spray so that it missed his dangling legs. On the long run this may have become a manly thing. Meanwhile the woman probably had to squat even on the branch just to avoid the salty liquid drying on her legs and eventually cause itching. Keep in mind that I am seeing this from a man’s point of view whose exposure to the outdoors have been through camping in the back yard with his children.

This was the beginning when men were distinctly identifiable from women. Men could stand while whipping the little guy side to side as they scanned for predators, whereas the lowly women had to squat and not be afforded the panoramic view from behind the tall weeds. This had to be part of evolution. Man: tall protector. Woman: squat protected. Consequence, man stands. Only a wimp or a woman would squat. One must admit, there is a magnificence attached to the scenario. I am surprised that we see so little of this in cave art and modern TV advertisements.

Privatizing the Action …

With formalized religion oozing out of the witch doctor realm sin was invented. One of the sins was urinating in public: you had to get it indoors. The term “outhouse” is a euphemism for the means for sitting on a hole while doing number one or number two. There is bucolic charm to the idea of a tiny wooden shack with a half moon cutout above the door. When you really have to go, almost any place will do. Naturally you don’t want to do it in your house, so there was the outhouse alternative. With all that, men still stood outside to scan for predators while swinging the little guy even as predators became scarce. Women had to sit on the hole behind the half moon whether parting with number one or two. In the summer the odors were ripe, the flies kept busy. In the winter one tended to freeze the somewhat private parts unintentionally. Washing of one’s hands afterward took second place to buttoning up the clothes.

Industrial Revolution …

Large towns with paved streets became less able to accommodate public urination. The issues ranged from modesty to the objection of the city burghers to the stench on a hot summer day. This was the beginning of privatization of the activity. Men would still stand over a hole in the floor; women would squat over their own hole in the floor. A modicum of privacy was offered by partitions between the sexes mainly to shield the shy female bladders from the ogling by curious males. This era also introduced the need to clean up after the users. The job description of the attendants of these public dumps required the ability to wield a bucket of water and a scrub brush, much like today’s college graduates who still live with their parents. No formal education was needed, college graduates needed not apply. The labor supply was endless, and the users remained oblivious to the result of their use and misuse of the facilities. At the end, men still stood.

Modernization of Indoor Pplumbing …

Whether public or private, porcelain made the difference. When combined with tightly coupled water source and drain it made the users glad that they did not have to fight the flies in the summer and the freezing of their thingies in the winter. There was still an issue with odors, so vents and windows were supplied. At this point the men no longer had to stand to scan for predators. In the privacy of the wash closet they could sit and take care of business, and no one would call them wimps for doing the equivalent of womanly squatting. As we very well know, this did not happen. There were two reasons for the continuance of this primitive but manly custom. One was the illusion of maintaining the manliness of urination; the other was the invention of the urinal.

I am not sure whether the urinal was invented to support the manly illusion, or the manly illusion was maintained because the urinal was invented. Regardless, any man would feel foolish to walk into a public restroom used by modern barbarians and sit on a filthy toilet seat when a perfectly good, albeit filthy, urinal is available. Why, even women have succumbed to the lure of inventions that make it possible for them to avoid using the filthy toilets just to urinate.

While I am on the subject I want to point out an interesting fact. Many travelers when using public toilets make themselves at home so to speak. They shit and piss on everything. Of course, that makes it less desirable for subsequent users, especially women who can’t stand up while doing it.

Next installment: "The modern Man and Indoor Plumbing"

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Retaliation to Witholding Sex

Tamara in her post of June 19, 2011, "Subs need no sex" poses some questions embedded in her experience with the withholding of sex. I tried to answer her questions in a comment to that post. At the same time I realized that there are still some explanations needed on my recently revealed situation.

Tamara’s partner withdrew from sex at some point in her relationship. She said,
“… I let him feel that I was missing something important. I was frustrated and grumpy, I reproached him, and, when it lasted for a longer period of time, I started to put emotional distance between us. I just could not help it. Even when I wanted to show patience, because I knew that my grumpiness made him even less inclined to having sex with me, I just couldn’t help it. My frustration showed through…”
I think that her response was very human, very natural. It was not a solution to her problem, but a means of dealing with her feelings. Alas, this approach seldom works.

In the earlier days of our marriage I was caring but immature. Regardless of how much sex we had, it was not enough for me. In my lack of satisfaction I did push my wife. She complied some of the time, but the result was not what I had expected. Years later, when I reached my epiphany, I changed my approach to avoid all requests of her of any nature, especially sexual. Amazingly, she became calmer, and began to enjoy sex more. I was still unsatisfied, but that was just the mismatch of our libidos.

As for holding a grudge or becoming distant, well, I recognize the feelings that prompted me to do them in the past. They are destructive behaviors, which I no longer practice especially with her. Having sex with others is not an option that either of us would contemplate. Our commitment to each other is supreme in all respect, of which sex is just one.

I am not a submissive man. I have taken charge most of my life. Still, my very strong preference in sex is to submit, and to submit to any extent that my wife could demand. Our relationship in or outside of the bedroom can be described to an extent but not one hundred percent, as D/S where I am the S part by choice, and only between the two of us. My submissiveness covers most of our lives together, and my dominance surfaces only in rare circumstances where I must take clear and immediate action. This may sound like a lot of unnecessary explanation by the guilty. I just want to be sure to demonstrate that my submission to her is not entirely based on sex. There is a difference. When a man submits to a woman only because of the kind of sex he receives in return, he is happy. If she withholds that kind of sex, at some point he reverts to his own D/S standing, and the submission to her is officially over.

MW and I have an understanding: I serve, she enjoys. There is no contract, there is no threat of consequences (although I wish there were), and there are no fights or arguments. Under the circumstances I don’t spend all day serving her with no time left for myself. Quite the opposite. Most of my work is done on time, and if not, there is always tomorrow. This relationship does not preclude anything that she or we decide to do at any time. She hints about sex play, spanking, and such, and I don’t discourage her. If she is not taking action, she will do any or all when she is ready, assuming I am still able to comply.

She has problems that are outside the scope of our D/S relationship, but have major impact on it. Without first solving those problems, more than just sex will suffer. She is working on it, and I try to be supportive. Meanwhile I try to enjoy all the other good things in life.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

What Is Left?

We spend a lot of time together when we are free to do so. We enjoy each other’s company. We have fun. When we are free she does what she wants, and I do what I want to a certain extent. For example, she does not restrict my Internet access to any site or to any time or length of time. She lets me do my work at my pace and my convenience, for she knows that all will be done. She does not want to be in charge, she just prefers to have her way since I make it possible.
 
She is not throwing crumbs at me as gifts, a-la-Rika. But that goes much deeper. I miss our all-inclusive FLR of a short three years ago. What we have left is like a former priceless work of art displayed on a pedestal. At some point it fell and shattered. We could put some of the pieces together and the result would be a reasonable approximation of the original. However, with the small pieces missing or beyond repair, the result would never be as good. Erosion succumbs to entropy. The longer we wait, the less chance there is of finding the crucial pieces that would make things work.
 
It’s not that we could not still have fantastic sex without resuming the old customs. Even vanilla people, whom we have become sexually, can have that. During our best days she was satisfied with occasional sex, whereas I was driven by it daily. I never insisted, never gave her a hard time about our differences. She knew how I felt and we often joked about it.
 
I said earlier that I have some guesses about her view of things. At first she was regretful about not being able to have penetrating sex. Then she began to feel guilty, which transferred to any other kind of sex that we used to have. She was waiting until she was perfect again to try. With her, perfection is in everything she does. If it is not perfect, she abandons it. Later on she could not decide how to resume any of the old activities, and that just added to her regret and guilt. Now she is embarrassed about beginning anything related to sex. We talk freely, never fight, and don’t even have an argument. If I don’t agree with something I say so, and take it no further. We don’t talk about sex. I don’t want to cause her stress over it, and she does not bring it up for the reasons I guess and explain here.
 
The years of joy we have missed weigh on my mind. Someone young can begin anew and then get over it. Alas, we are not in a position to do so. We have what we have, and go with it. We can choose to make the best of it, or maintain status quo. One of the commenters on the previous post guesses that ours may be a “service oriented vanilla” relationship. I think he is right. Until three years ago we were fully in an FLR with a fair amount of sex and D/S, as you can read on my early posts. Lately, however, the formal D/S and the sex components have been on hold. I am not sure where we are heading with this.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

The Events Leading Up To This Scenario

About three years ago I wrote on this blog that she was in need of surgery. The conditions that required it did not allow regular penetrative sex at that point. She said, “When I get fixed, we will be back to normal.” It took close to a year, but she did get fixed. During that time she also put on hold any other kind of sex. No D/S or S/M play, no edging, no masturbation, no kinky stuff. After her surgery she took time to recover, but has been well as far as I knew. However, the sex we used to have is still on hold. It is now close to three years along our one-way trip to entropy. I did report on occasional chastity play. In one instance she actually started sex, and had me enter her in the usual manner. That I could not achieve orgasm, regardless of how horny and hard I remained, was not her fault. I guess I had too many irrelevant issues on my mind. The event was still good, and I would not mind repeating it. She did not critique, did not say how satisfied or dissatisfied she was with my on the spur of the moment performance.

You might say, “Why the hell don’t you talk to her? Find out what she wants!” It does not work that way with her. Either she starts something and I comply, or nothing happens. I will not go into an explanation of why that is to protect our privacy.

Ironically we still have a female led relationship more so than some of the formal FLR’s that we read about. I am polite and respectful, and supportive with her. I never lecture or reprimand. I don’t belittle or make fun. We are spiritually and physically close and compatible. I would do anything for her, and she knows it. Yet, she is missing the pleasure she used to derive from my almost daily full body massages of her beautiful parts. She probably misses the selfless orgasms I used to give her when she was in receptive moods. It may be petty of me to withhold all that, but I am human. I have never been able to be totally selfless for long. At some point I need a reward for my services. That is why this is different from Rika’s service oriented submission.

Final installment: “What Is Left?”

Saturday, June 4, 2011

My Case of Service Oriented Submission

I have not talked about this much on my blog, but the relationship I have with my wife can be called a service oriented submission. It does not resemble to a large degree what Rika had presented. I will present it from my point of view, for I don’t know whether my wife considers this relationship as service oriented submission. In any case, I can only guess about her point of view, which I will mention later.

I do home and structure maintenance, yard work, cleaning, etc. I do new projects, improvements, and all the work for her when she needs help on some art project or such. She never has to prompt me to do such work, it just gets done. Occasionally she points out something that I may not be doing right. Sometimes she does some work because my results may not be entirely satisfactory or up to her standards.

We live in a semi-rural area, outside of town, on a large lot. We have many pets. Twice daily I feed, water, dispense medication, and clean pet areas. Every few days or as often as necessary I do major cleaning. I take pets to the vet for checkups, etc. I keep up with all schedules associated with them, and make plans for someone to do the pet maintenance when MW and I are gone on trips once or twice a year.

We have no opportunity to use public transportation. She prefers not to drive a vehicle in general, so I drive her everywhere. We do all the shopping together, doctors’ appointments, her art business, restaurants, and family visits. At home she has me fetch things for her from downstairs or upstairs, drinks, snacks, loading the clothes drier, folding clothes, etc.

She has no interest in accounting, bookkeeping, investments, tax preparation, banking and such, so all that reverts to me. We do discuss major decisions, but about the details I just give her the bottom line when she asks for it. Everything is available for her to see, but her mind is on other things. I do tell her when we are short of funds between paydays to try to avoid running out. I don’t buy anything for myself without first discussing it with her.

She likes to cook, so she does most of our meals. My involvement in nutrition preparation is limited to barbecues, drinks, refreshments, snacks, and my breakfasts and lunches. She spends her time any way that she wants to. She, for some reason I don’t know, prefers to do the clothes washing, and hand over to me the drying and folding. Fine with me.

I deal with everybody outside the home at her request. Only on rare occasions does she need to participate, typically when her presence is required by a third party. Otherwise I make all phone calls and deal with authorities and vendors.

I am willing to do a lot more, but that would be up to her. When she asks, I comply unless the required action would be grossly impractical, in which case I try to present suitable alternatives.

Now, I ask you, “Which part of the above is not service oriented submission?” I don’t get paid for this, for we live in a community property state, and we are married. As for other compensations, well read on.

Next installment: “The Events Leading up to This Scenario”

Thursday, May 26, 2011

My Service Oriented Submission Revealed

In this series of posts I will explain the reasons for some of my views that one could call, among other things, jaundiced. I prefer to call it experienced. I have experienced good things. I have had expectations come to fruition, and then subsequent frustrations. I have experienced the irony of many submissive man’s dreams: chastity and denial. I will now put this into the context of my reality. The subjects I will present are
  • Formalized Service Oriented Relationship
  • My Case of Service Oriented Submission
  • The events Leading up to This Scenario
  • What Is Left?

 Formalized Service Oriented Relationship

 
Looking over my earlier postings there is evidence of evolution of my views. I may be contradicting my earlier pontifications, but I have to say some things. I don’t know whether I am experiencing an early onset of senility or a late acquisition of wisdom that seems to have afflicted me. Nevertheless, my thinking is evolving.
 
The moment I returned to Rika’s book pecipitated this revelation. When I first read this book I was enamored by her views, her applied methods, and what she was trying to teach to would-be-dominant females who may not have had any interest in domination other than from time to time in the bedroom. A few years downstream, as I mentioned in my previous post after re-reading of her book “Uniquely Rika” I became disenchanted with her approach to handling her submissive men. Her method is unworkable in general. Her main theme, service oriented submission is being discussed in blogs lately. In most cases it is with the naïve view that I presented in my early posts. 
 
One of these blogs is different. I was trying to catch up with the postings of one of my blogosphere friends, Scott, who appears wanting to work with his wife Em to turn his voluntary servitude into more service oriented submission. See I always Want More written by Em. If the direct link does not work, try to navigate back to the March 20, 2011 post. Their situation, however, is much different from what Rika advocates. For one thing, Scott and Em are real in a real life D/S marriage. Em seems to like mental torture by cuckolding, mild humiliation, and promises of physical punishment. The promised punishment may be for real or perceived misdeeds of Scott, or simply because she needs to unwind after a stressful week by whipping, binding, caging, and doing other delectable treats with Scott the lucky target. Given all that, the only resemblance to Rika’s method is the name: service oriented submission. She actually wants Scott to get off on serving her regardless of what she does to or for him in return. There is no problem, however. Scott is perfectly willing to hone his skill at gracious service to his loving wife, for he knows that she needs it, and she never neglects him. In their relationship her motivation is self-satisfaction just like Rika’s. The difference is that she actually enjoys treating Scott. Unlike in Rika’s relationship, these are not “rare” or “occasional” gifts unrelated to Scott’s behavior. There is love and satisfaction for both parties.
 
The unique case of Rika's requires two people of specific nature. One, selfish and uninvolved, devoid of love or attachment to a submissive. Her only investment is the time she had put into training him. The other requirement is a man who remains satisfied to serve her in all respects for an occasional crumb tossed his way that he can lick off the floor. He needs no recognition, no reciprocation of feelings, no safety, no escalation of pleasure, no evolution of the situation, no chance to state his needs. You can see how difficult it would be for two people to find each other and, especially, to stay together to fulfill these requirements. What she has is a man with no soul. What remains of his character is like the product of breaking a wild horse: he serves well and willingly, but his spirit is gone. Regardless of how good a boot-licker he is, at some point she would become bored with him. What happens then? Does she begin to pay attention to him and challenge him in ways other than adding more mind-numbing drudgery to his daily routine? That is unlikely, for that would be changing her basic premise of the service oriented submission that requires total servitude in exchange for absolutely no reward or recognition. The alternative is to get rid of this slave and find another.
 
She mentions communication, but then reverts to communicating her way: She tells, he listens. That is not communication. That is stating a request by one party with no recourse by the other. While Rika still had her blog up I once asked her a question. “I sometimes have problems that need to be discussed with my wife. If we follow your rules, I may never be able to voice them. How do I let her know?” She answered, “You don’t. That would be topping from the bottom.” I took her answer as trivial, and never asked another question from her.
 
Next installment: “My Case of Service Oriented Submission”