The First Fist: A Tale of a Talented Top with a Tight Ass

It’s no secret that Tripp is a fisting bottom. Over the years, I have become a very good fisting Top. I’ve fisted guys long before I met Tripp. We met because fisting was on the menu, and I’ve subsequently had a great deal of time and practice to develop my technique.

There’s a group of men who meet for fisting parties semi-regularly that we attend. Most guys who attend are bottoms and Tops are fairly rare and much sought after. Given my prowess, I was always kept very busy. I was up to my elbows in asses. I always been a bit jealous of the pleasure the bottoms were having and very much admired those who could stretch easily. Some of these men could take two fists, and they always were howling with ecstasy while doing it. Now, I like a good cock in my ass, but it was tight, particularly back then. I could barely imagine one hand in me, let alone two.

Eventually, I decided I wanted more than cock in my ass. I wanted to finally take a fist. I’ve had some large toys in me, but after a certain size, they just seem to not go in. One evening, I was attending the party by myself. I don’t remember why Tripp wasn’t there. I talked to several of the men about what I wanted. Dave was another Top with a great deal of experience. He volunteered to “pop my cherry”. I got into one of the slings and Dave lubed me and his hand up very thickly. Dave has medium hands.

He was extremely patient with me. He would push me a little further each time he entered me. He spent about an hour stretching my hole and talking me through everything he was doing. Finally, he had four fingers in me easily. As he started to push his hand in me, I tensed immediately. He backed off and had me relax and breathe. “You just have to want it”, he said. I wanted it, but I just didn’t think my pelvis was wide enough. It felt like he was hitting bone. He wasn’t, he assured me. “Just breathe” he kept saying as his hand went slowly into my ass. “Breathe”, he said as I started to tense up. I did and relaxed. I could feel his hand sliding ever so slowly deeper into me. “Keep breathing”, he said. “You’re almost there”. I did as he said and kept relaxing my body. He talked to me the entire time. “Breathe in”, he told me. I did. “Now exhale”. As I was breathing out. his fist slipped all the way inside me.

At first, it felt too big. My immediate reaction was to try and push it out. I could barely control the spasms. “Keep breathing and it will pass”, Dave told me. It did pass. I got accustomed to the feeling of a fist inside me. Dave slowly started to pull out and then push back in, loosening my hole over time. Eventually, his hand went in and out easily.

Jerry walked over and was watching the scene. He has larger hands than Dave, which I noticed since he was putting gloves on them. Dave stepped away and Jerry took his place. Jerry repeated the process Dave took me through, though it went far more quickly and his hand was in me before I knew it. Eventually all the guys were standing around the sling watching me take Jerry’s fist.

After the two of them had officially popped my cherry, I needed a break. I’d just had my first fists and I was sore. The other men were all smiling and laughing. I thought something was wrong, so I asked if everything was okay. Then they chuckled again. “Guess we’re going to need to find a new Top”, one of them said. “Guess you’re right”, I replied.

I still like to fist, but now I’m equally likely to be in the sling as I am to be in front of it. Now if I could just get two fists in…


Leather and Naïveté

I was a student until I was 26 years old and money was always tight. A big night out was a cheesesteak wit, so I didn’t own much in the way of gear. I used to go occasionally to the Bike Stop, the leather bar in Philly, and was always envious of the leather clad men. I owned a pair of boots and a jacket, so even though they had a dress code, I could get by.

I moved to LA when I got my first job and started going to the Eagle and began to accumulate my first pieces of gear. Behind the bar was a leather shop run by a man apparently well known in the bdsm community. I don’t remember his name or the name of the shop, but I understand that he was a serious player (I didn’t know that at the time). I heard he passed away some years later and there is (or was) a memorial to him at the Faultline.

I was actually a bit nervous walking into the shop. I wanted to get kitted out with chaps, a jock, a harness, vest, and a few other items. I was a bit overwhelmed by all the items available. I was the only customer in the store and the owner took me into the large workroom. There was bondage equipment and several whips hanging from a rack. There was a St Andrew’s cross in the corner. He fitted me for chaps and a bar vest. He made some complimentary remarks about my body and my package as he fitted me. He then brought out a number of harnesses. I wanted a full body one. He picked one that he thought would suit me. He asked me to strip so he could fit the harness. I didn’t think anything of it. It was a full body harness, so I did as he requested. Pretty soon, My jeans were around my ankles and he was fitting the harness to me.

Eventually, he remarked that he thought he shouldn’t sell it to me unless my chest and pubes were shaved. I giggled nervously. Then he mentioned he would be happy to tie me up and shave me. He kept saying how good I would look shaved. He also thought a collar would look good on me. I hemmed and hawed and pretended it was just a joke. He was kind of a hot Daddy but I was young and naive. This is the way porn stories start, but I didn’t get that he was coming on to me. He made the shaving comment several times. I didn’t pick up that he was flirting. I could have played the situation out and probably had a very interesting afternoon and a really good story, but I didn’t. I just blushed and laughed it off. I mean, I’m virtually naked, in a harness, surrounded by gear and restraints (his shop was also his playroom, I believe). I didn’t walk in there expecting anything other than buying my first gear, so I was not in the mindset that anything else was on the table. I was also still fairly inexperienced, having spent the previous 26 years essentially in school full time and there not being the internet (yeah, I’m that old). All I had was my limited experience. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have probably walked out of there several hours later, smooth, used, and bruised.

He did eventually fit the harness on me and he did try a collar around my neck, with plenty of innuendo, none of which I picked up on. I still have that harness, which sadly doesn’t fit anymore. I mean, I was young and tight with long brown hair and a 28 inch waist. I was kinda hot in my youth (alright, I was hot back then).

I think about that now and again (probably through rose-colored glasses). I wonder what could have happened. I think it would have been memorable, but I don’t know. I think of things I wished I had said, with the benefit of experience and hindsight. I was young and really naive at that time. It wasn’t until I moved to the Bay Area a year later that I started to come into my own. I wonder what might have happened. It might have been an amazing experience, or it might have been awful. I’ll never know.


Another Anniversary of a Sort

2 years ago next month, Tripp and I were in Lisbon. I had just received my first metal cage (a Steelworxx) before we left. I’d been living in plastic up until that point. I wore the plastic on the flight over and put on the new cage when we arrived. All seemed well that evening. Tripp liked it. He called me his “man of steel”. I loved it. The steel had a heft that was lacking in the plastic cage. It felt so much more solid.

We spent the next day walking all around Lisbon. It’s truly a beautiful city. By the end of the day, something was just not quite right around my junk. The more we walked, the more painful it became. I powered through for quite some time until I just couldn’t take it anymore. We grabbed an Uber back to the hotel where I immediately pulled off my pants and Tripp gave my cock and balls the once over. It seems the base ring had chafed me quite severely during the day. The ring seemed fine initially, but the walking caused a significant abrasion. File that under “what not to do in a new cage”.

Tripp got the key and unlocked me. As he removed the steel tube, my previously denied cock sprang to full attention. I was so hard that there was no way that cockring was coming off, and it really needed to come off. My free range cock is a little over 7 inches and pretty thick when fully aroused, and right then it was as hard as a rock, with the aforementioned now very tight cock ring only making it swell more and more. If it hadn’t been so painful, it would have been a glorious sight. The pain, however, did nothing to diminish my erection. In fact, it made it harder.

Tripp knew there was only one way to get my cock soft at that point. Being the dutiful husband, Tripp put his mouth around said rock and proceeded to blow me. Tripp has very talented orifices, and he swallowed my very hard manhood down to my balls. You all remember I married a total bottom? I know it doesn’t seem like he is now, but he was, trust me. It wasn’t long before my eyes were rolling back in my head and I was unleashing a torrent of come down his throat. As my cock started to deflate, we were finally able to get the ring off. He left me unlocked that night.

The next morning, things looked better but Tripp decided that I was going to go back to the plastic cage until the ring issue was sorted with the steel. After a few emails back and forth with the manufacturer, we realized the ring was too small and I ordered a larger size, which resolved the issue, eventually. I stayed in plastic until we got home. Being rather new to long term lockage, I didn’t realize that the size ring you can wear without a cage is a fair bit smaller than one you can wear with a cage. I learned that lesson the hard way, if you’ll pardon the pun.

The reason I’m writing about this isn’t to gripe about my ring error, the wound, or to regale you with tales of Tripp’s very talented mouth. It’s because that was actually the last blowjob I have had. I stayed locked for the rest of that year and was only released for a few hours at New Year’s because Tripp wanted to be fucked by my actual penis (something he has evidently gotten over since the strap-on arrived). I’ve been locked since with only caged orgasms here and there, and it has been recently decided that, if I’m ever allowed an orgasm again, it will be caged. Unless something radically changes (and I honestly don’t see that happening), that was the last blow job I’ll ever have. Even though the reason for it was unfortunate, I’m glad it was such a good one.



We all have sexual dreams and fantasies, and I have my share. One of my biggest fantasies came (mostly) true; to be a slave to a Master. In my head, I’d be a 24/7/365 slave, not the part time slave I am, but what I do have is pretty damn good. I’m not sure I could really be a full time slave, but then again, maybe I could. The other dream that has completely come true is to be locked 24/7/365. I always wondered what that would be like and if I could really do it, and now I know. It’s amazing and I can totally do it, because I am doing it.

I think most fantasies are better in your head than in reality. Still, there are some I’d love to see happen. Almost all of mine involve groups of men using me. One in particular has me strapped down to a rotating table with my ass hanging off one end and my face off the other. There are 10 or so men standing around the table and as I am rotated, their cocks are placed in my mouth and ass. As each pair comes in me, I’m rotated to the next. I get hard just thinking about it, which I suppose is the point.

Another one is a kidnap fantasy. I’m abducted and knocked out only to wake up bound, hooded and gagged in a cell with a massive (as in the biggest you can imagine and then add 10%) plug in my ass. My captors are unknown, but as I rouse, I am taken by them to a dungeon where I am forced to please them. I can’t see them but I can smell the leather they wear and the musk of the cocks, pits, and asses I am forced to serve. The only water I get is their piss and the only food is their come. Eventually, after they are done with me, I’m left by the roadside, well used, naked, locked, and still plugged.

As you can tell, most of my fantasies involve me being used, but not all. I have one where I am the leather clad dungeon master selecting boys to either serve or be put to work doing manual labor. They have to prove to me they are worth serving or they get sent to the mines, so to speak. I test them by whipping them or otherwise torturing them. My Top self has fantasies as well.

These are jerk off stuff (not that I can jerk off anymore), and I highly doubt they would be as enjoyable in reality as they are in my mind. In my head, my knees don’t get stiff after I’ve been kneeling for hours, plugs don’t irritate, nothing hurts (except what’s supposed to) etc. Still, I’d take them as an idea to build a real experience around. Maybe it’s not the literal fantasy, but it’s first cousin. I’d like to experience something similar, if not exact.

My fantasies mostly serve to get me hard in my cage. I can’t jerk off anymore, but I still have them and I enjoy the desire they create in me. Even though I can’t come from them, I still want them to come true (mostly). Interestingly, I’m locked in all my fantasies. I suppose that’s just how my brain sees me now. I have a lot more that I won’t go into, but you get the gist. So clearly, fantasy plays more of a role than just to jerk off to, because I have them fairly often. In fact, since I’ve been locked, I’ve had some of the most vivid sex dreams of my life. My cock may be benched, but my brain is as active as ever.


You Gotta Do What You Gotta Do

After a couple of weeks of zero, the horniness is coming back. This time it wasn’t Covid related, but vaccine induced. Every year for the last 25 years, I’ve gotten an influenza shot. I actually got influenza in the mid-90’s, and let me tell you, while I was a healthy 30 year old, I don’t think I’ve ever been that sick in my life. High fever, muscle pain so bad I couldn’t move, a cough that wouldn’t quit, and bad stuff coming out of every orifice in my body. I know why people die from this. I was down for the better part of a week. Never wanting to experience that again, I’ve gotten my flu shot every year since. Usually, my arm is sore for a day or two. This year’s was different. I felt like crap. My arm was sore, but I also got muscle aches and chills. It was literally 110 degrees outside and I was sitting in a fleece and a blanket and shivering. Thankfully, that only lasted about 24 hours, but it took almost a week to feel better. Tripp got his a few days later and didn’t have any side effects

Now, because I am of a certain age, I had to get the Shingles vaccine. I waited a week after the flu shot. I’ve been told the side effects are unpleasant, but far less so than getting shingles. So I got it. My arm got very, very sore, but that was about it. Tripp got his too, but he got the side effects like I had with the flu shot, and he’s been feeling off for the last week.

So, we spent the last two weeks being rather achy and less than interested in sex. Getting older sucks, but the alternative is worse. We are just emerging on the other side and starting to both feel human again.

My horniness returned with a vengeance the other day, but sadly Tripp’s has not. My cage has been particularly tight of late. It was time to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. I pillaged the toy drawer for my favorite prostate massager. I haven’t had an orgasm in months and haven’t had any other form of relief in weeks. I attacked my ass and prostate with a vengeance and was quickly rewarded with a copious amount of delicious non-dairy penile beverage and a general feeling of some release. Clearly, my prostate needed some attention and I made quite the mess (which I licked up happily). I haven’t bothered to put that toy away, because it’s going back in at least once a day until Tripp is feeling better.

Even though Tripp has been amazingly disciplined about denying my orgasm and he’s been good about milking me fairly regularly, we went quite a while and I do need that toy in me fairly often. So, until he’s feeling up to it, I’ll just have to continue to take that matter into my own hands. It’s far less fun than when Tripp milks me, but sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do:


To Tripp On Our 2 Year Chastity Anniversary

I’ll never forget our first date. I took you to that hole in the wall by the beach. I’m surprised both of us survived that experience, and even more surprised you agreed to a second date. I know we’ve been back to that place a few times, for laughs. I guess it will always be “our place”, at least until it’s condemned by the health department.

I don’t remember what we did on our second date. Chinese maybe? I do remember kissing you for the first time. On our next date, we went to the Eagle in full gear together. I introduced you to the penis and you sucked me off and swallowed my come. It was our first leather sex.

I met you at your place for our forth date. You had a sling set up and met me in nothing but your chaps and Wescos. You sucked me and then climbed into the sling. I fucked you for the first time, and then you took my fist. In fact, you took my arm almost to the elbow. You came hard when I fisted you. We spent our first night together. I fucked you again the next morning. As I was leaving, you told me you loved me. I wasn’t quite ready to say it back. I told you while I could be monogamous with my heart, I wasn’t with my dick. You kissed me and told me that was fine with you. I told you more about Sir and the other boys I played with. You were happy I had that.

We went on our first long weekend away not long after that. We both tested negative a few days before. You told me not to bother bringing condoms. You wore my collar and called me Sir. I fucked you and I came in you for the first time. Yours was the first ass I’d filled with come in ages. You kept saying “yeah, fuck your boy” every time I penetrated you. You loved being fucked. You had a hungry hole. If I recall correctly, I fucked my boy multiple times that weekend. I told you that I loved you too. I don’t think we’ve really been apart since. We’ve lived, travelled, skied, dived and played together. We’ve been to Folsom and IML together. We’ve cruised for playmates together. We built a playroom. We’ve laughed and cried together, always together.

Those first years are a blur of love, three-ways, fisting parties, s/m, blow jobs and fucking. I don’t think we went a day without sex. I’d come home, pull down your pants, and fuck you before you could say hello. You came every time I fucked or fisted you. I asked you to marry me. You said yes.

The health problems started to show up not long after we married. Your body began betraying you and you hated that. Our sex life gradually became a shadow of what it had been. I didn’t fuck or fist you much anymore. The kink disappeared. You stopped wearing your gear. I started to feel embarrassed about wearing mine. It happened so insidiously that I didn’t notice until I became self conscious about wanting sex when you didn’t or couldn’t. Days became weeks became months. My love never decreased, but that physical connection diminished. I turned to porn and masturbation. I stopped playing with boys because it felt like cheating. Eventually, I realized something had to change, there had to be a way to reignite the passion, so 2 years ago today, I asked you to lock my dick.

I sat before you with a plastic cage on my dick. It wasn’t easy. I’d been your Sir for 10 years. I was terrified. But far more important than being your Sir, I wanted to be your lover again. I wanted to share my fascination with chastity with you. I wanted to find something we could do together again. It’s always been about that, about the together. I remember the first time we went out after I was caged. As we sat down to dinner with friends, you gave my caged cock a squeeze. That was a thrill. Since then, we’ve gone from plastic to steel to titanium, each cage a little better, and you’ve been there all along, encouraging and supporting me. You’ve watched over my cock, always making sure I’m okay. Every new cage got a trial. We learned what worked and what didn’t, together. Eventually, we picked out my forever cage.

At first, you locked me because it made me happy. You’ve always done things to make me happy. Slowly, so slowly, you grew to want me locked. I’ve watched you grow as a Dom. I’ve watched you embrace owning my caged cock. You sometimes surprise me by how aggressive you can be. I want you to know I want more of that aggression. I love it. When you finally took my cock for good, telling me you will never unlock me and forever denying me a non-caged orgasm, it took my breath away. You hinted that even caged orgasms would be few and far between, or maybe never. You’ve replaced the sadness and disappointment I felt when I couldn’t use my cock to fuck you with the crazy, horny teasing and frustration of not be allowed to use my cock. I fell in mad crazy love all over again. I’ve never not loved you, but I didn’t know I could love you even more until that day. That Tripp amazes me and I want more of him.

You beat my balls. You collar and plug me. You milk my prostate. You put large dildos up my ass. All the skills you learned training your ass are being put to use on mine. You’ve learned how to flog and paddle me, and you do it now because you like it. There’s a fire in you. You’re lit from the inside and it casts its glow all around. I see your eyes sparkle when you make me squirm. You make my caged dick hard, so very hard. I want to go with you on whatever journey that side of you wants to take. I love you. My fist and the strap ons are ready anytime you want them. In the meantime, yeah, fuck your locked boy.


The Tripp Card

Sir doesn’t read this blog, so I’m counting on all of you not telling him this, but sometimes when I’m feeling a bit resistant to some of Sir’s desires, I pull out my free pass, the Tripp card.

Because I’m not Sir’s full time slave (He has fractional ownership, I’m a time share slave), He doesn’t have the final say on all things related to what He does with my body. He can’t alter my appearance without an okay from Tripp. Tripp has never said no to anything that is not permanent. Tripp has firmly said no to any tattoos or other permanent symbols of Sir’s ownership, which I completely understand. I really do want to celebrate the end of Covid (when it comes) with a new tat, but that’s another story.

I started really getting serious about getting back in shape about 2 years ago. Besides the obvious health benefits, I really wanted to have a body that pleased Sir. I watched everything I ate, I hired a trainer, and I hit the gym 3-4 times a week. I made some serious progress. My body fat dropped significantly and I put on muscle. Sir likes muscle boys. While I’m never going to be huge (I’m not genetically capable of massive muscle), He was very pleased with my body. As I started getting bigger, Sir wanted to alter my body hair landscape. I’m already shaved down below for him (with Tripp’s blessing). He started by neatly trimming my chest hair. As things progressed, he started talking about shaving. He wanted to shave my chest and pits. He wanted me to shave my arms and legs. Essentially, He wanted me hairless from the neck down. I admit, the idea intrigued me. I want my body to please him. He is very turned on by smooth muscle boys, but I don’t relish the idea of the time and effort that it would take to stay that way (I’m fairly blessed in the body hair department), so I played the Tripp card.

I told him Tripp would probably not let me do that and Sir dropped it. The thing is, I didn’t ask Tripp. I’m pretty sure Tripp would not prefer me that way, in fact I’m 100% sure, but I didn’t ask. Tripp likes my hirsute-ness. I know him well enough to know that me being smooth is not on his radar, but still, if Sir had shaved me, Tripp would have understood. He’d likely have teased me about it, but I doubt he’d have been upset.

I rarely do this with Sir. In fact, I’ve only done it once before. It’s not a lie, because I know what the answer would be, but it’s not completely honest either, because I didn’t ask Tripp. I do feel a bit bad about this, but honestly it’s just too much work for the amount of time Sir has ownership of me. Hell, keeping up with my pubes and nutsack is time consuming enough.

It’s a moot point now, since I haven’t gone to the gym in months and I’ve gained 10 pounds of fat and probably lost 10 pounds or more of muscle. I’m back to square one in the fitness department. I got depressed and stopped doing any home workouts, and I pretty much went to pot, body wise. It’s much harder to gain muscle at my age than it was when I was young, and it’s way too easy to gain fat. That muscle boy physique I was developing has pretty much disappeared over the last several months, and it’s not likely to reappear anytime soon. I’m not going back to the gym until there’s a vaccine. I have started back up on my home exercise routines, but it’s not going to build muscle like I did before. I’m just going for losing the fat I’ve accumulated.

But I digress. I’ve decided that when I get back to a physique that I am proud of, I’m going to actually ask Tripp if Sir can shave me, assuming Sir still wants to. I’ve also promised myself that I will not play the Tripp card again. I’m just going to put myself in their collective hands and let it be what it will be. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Sir and I am really missing the control that He has. It’s not fair to either of us to not let Him have the ownership He deserves and to let Tripp actually make the decision, even if it’s one I don’t particularly like. It’s good to have a goal.


My Private Kink

There’s something to be said for normalizing kink so much that you almost forget it’s kink. Even so, every now and then I get overwhelmed from the feeling that kink has become such a normal part of my existence. Usually, I go about my day, but once in a while I realize I am locked, plugged, and often collared in public and while a few people know it, most don’t. If they’ve noticed something, nobody has mentioned it at any rate. It’s delightful.

I’m self conscious when I wear gear in public. Even a leather cuff sometimes makes me a little uncomfortable. I have a few that look more like studly accessories than fetish wear, but still. I’m not in the least self conscious about my cage, collar, and plug, which is kind of weird if you think about it.

But no one notices. It’s my own private kink. I do imagine a world where kinks are openly displayed and accepted. It would be wonderful to live in a Folsom world every day, but we don’t (yet). Still, when I was young, barely any gay person lived openly, so there’s hope. Besides, kink is not limited to homosexuals. In fact, the majority of people have some kink they enjoy. This county is so sex averse that things change slowly. American go to Europe and are shocked, just shocked I tell you, that people are naked in public. We’re prudes. Seriously, you can watch the most violent scenes on TV, but god forbid a dick gets shown.

I would love to wear my gear at work, I’d love for everyone to know I’m caged and not even give it a second thought. I’d love to compare butt plugs with the neighbor. But there is something quite delicious about no one realizing that the guy they are chatting with has 2 pounds of metal up his ass and a titanium dick. It makes me wonder who else I meet has the same situation, because I know they are out there too. I feel a bit naughty, which I rather like.

With the exception of a few events like Folsom or IML, my kinks remain private. Still, it’s wonderful when people who understand all get together and we are free to be who we are without judgement. It would be amazing if that were true everywhere and everyday. In the meantime, I’ll just enjoy my kink with the men in my life who share it.


Call Me By My Name

If someone calls me a bitch, pussy, cunt, or fag, I’m coming for them. If Sir does it, I just come. It’s funny the different reactions the same words cause depending on the situation. When I’m in sub space, I am that fag, cunt, or pussy. Hearing Sir call me that just reinforces our power exchange and puts me even deeper into my sub head. It turns me on to no end. I want Him to refer to my ass as His cunt and to me as His bitch.

Growing up, I was bullied a fair bit and severely by one particular kid in my class. He often called me a fag or a faggot. But even worse, he called me queer. Queer was his favorite taunt. I got so fucking angry at him. It hurt, deeply. I didn’t know I was gay, but it still made me feel ashamed and angry. This went on for years, until one day I had finally had enough and kicked him hard in the nuts (seriously, I went full Jackie Chan). No one called me queer after that and I learned that confronting a bully is the best way to deal with it. You can’t let them get away with it. Back then, bullying was just accepted as a normal part of life. Anyone who didn’t quite fit in was bullied, and no one did anything about it. After complaining, I was told by the school counselor that it was my fault for being too artsy, too nerdy, too studious, and that I should, essentially, man up. It was suggested I play more sports. Here’s the thing, I have a form of akinetopsia. I cannot tell where an object flying towards me actually is, which, I can assure you, makes playing baseball a frightening experience. But bullies are, in general, extremely insecure about themselves and bully others to make themselves feel better. No secure human has a need to degrade someone else. Standing up to them usually causes them to crumble. In his case, a severe bout of induced testicular pain ended my torment. Seeing him doubled over on the ground felt good, I’m a bit ashamed to admit (not that ashamed, he fucking deserved it).

I wasn’t the most bullied kid in the class, by far, but my tormentor was ruthless, until I pushed back. He avoided me like the plague after that, and I was fine with it. I got a FB friend request from him a while back. I laughed out load and hit delete.

It seems odd to me that the same words that caused me so much pain as I child can cause me so much pleasure as an adult. With Sir, I want to be degraded. I want to be His object, His toy, and His possession. It’s highly erotic, in that context. Perhaps because I am giving Him consent to use those words, they don’t have the same meaning.

There’s one word that still bugs me no matter what. I still hate the term queer. It’s the most common word that people used to bully me. It was meant to harm. I understand people reclaiming it as they reclaim their power, but for me, queer is like the “n” word. Cerebrally, I understand it, but viscerally, I deeply dislike it. I don’t think young people really understand how hateful that term was. But perhaps they do. Perhaps that’s the point. I’m not judging, merely commenting. I did shout it with Act Up in the 80’s and 90’s. “We’re here, we’re queer” was catchy, but I didn’t like it one bit. I don’t feel empowered by that term.

I’m rambling. I guess my point is that context matters, but even in the right context, some words are still hurtful to people, so I avoid them and I cringe when I hear them, even in a now acceptable usage. For me, queer will always have a negative connotation, regardless of the context. I admire people for reclaiming that word, but it just evokes such a visceral response in me and makes me feel like that bullied 8 year old again. I’m trying to get past it.


Word Porn

I like porn. I like watching handsome studs doing nasty things to each other. But porn, after a while, gets “samey”. It’s all basically a variation of the same thing. Someone gets sucked or fucked and maybe there’s some bondage and flogging. There are some seriously hot videos out there, particularly when the actors actually seem to be into each other, and I certainly have a few porn boyfriends I like to visit repeatedly, but it gets old. And now we have amateur porn available. All this homemade porn drives me nuts. I can’t stand watching two twinks in bad lighting paying more attention to their phones than each other, and they want to charge you for the privilege of watching them forget they’re fucking someone while they fiddle with the iPhone. There is something to be said for production values.

I prefer reading porn, particularly well written porn. Good stories let your imagination create what the characters look like and sound like. It puts you in that created world more immersively than any video can. You get to visualize what that particular world is like, and you can tailor it to what your brain finds most stimulating. Good writing does that, porn or not, and good porn writing is, well, an art. Writing has far more freedom. The author can imagine any world they want and bring you into it. Porn vids just get corny when they try something like that. They don’t have the budget and, let’s be honest, the performers are not there because of their acting skills.

I like writing. I try to do a good job for my reader. I try to be distinctive without being repetitive and to write clearly and concisely. I’m not always successful. Several bloggers I know just write what pops into their heads and publish it immediately. I’m more deliberative. I’ll go a while before I think of anything I want to write, and then I’ll get several ideas all at once. I’ll write them and I’ll sit with them. I’ll read and re-read them, first for grammar and then with an eye for editing. Do I need this paragraph or this sentence? Does it fit and does it do anything to advance what I am trying to say? If not, it’s gone. I’ve rewritten things multiple times when they just don’t work. I usually find my posts end up about half the length they started at.

In the end, if I’m successful, I have a neat little package to send out into the world. It’s like porn to me. It’s intimate and I’m sharing it with strangers. When someone likes what I’ve written, I get a rush. I write mostly for me, as a form of therapy (it’s way cheaper). I get to sort out issues and feelings and I get to have people come along with me on the journey. I try to just put it all out there as honestly as I can and I’ll keep doing it because it helps me, and maybe, just maybe, it helps someone else whose struggles are similar to my own.