When I first heard about the movie “Lars and the Real Girl” I decided that it was definitely something I needed to watch once it hit DVD. The initial description of the film was something along the lines of ‘a socially inept guy buys a RealDoll and then develops an actual relationship with her’. Sounded like a definite must see.
I knew that it wasn’t going to be exactly what I had originally expected when I went to add it to my Netflix queue a couple of weeks ago, only to discover that it carried a mere PG-13 rating.
I watched it a couple of nights ago, and it was an incredibly sweet and touching movie. (No, not ‘that’ kind of touching. Minds out of the gutter for the moment, people.) The socially inept guy (the titular “Lars”) actually develops a relationship with the RealDoll Bianca before she ever arrives. He’s been so lonely for so long that he develops a massive delusion that this sex doll he’s ordered is actually a foreign woman he’s been corresponding with over the internet with for some time. His brain compensates for some of the RealDoll’s obvious limitations with an detailed backstory that Bianca doesn’t speak a lot of English, and is wheelchair bound, needing help getting from place to place and getting dressed and whatnot.
At it’s core, the movie is about how the small town community helps Lars deal with his delusion by playing along . . . treating the RealDoll as if she were a real, living person. Given that it can accurately be described as being a movie about a sex toy, it isn’t in the least little bit lascivious. (Bianca, a former missionary, is very religious, and doesn’t feel that it’s right for her and Lars – two young single people – to stay alone in Lars’ garage apartment. So she ends up staying in the guest room of Lars’ brother and sister-in-law’s house.) And while – pervert that I am – I’d like to see a dirtier movie about a guy and his RealDoll, given the opportunity I certainly wouldn’t trade one for the final product that is “Lars and the Real Girl”.
Of course, now that I’ve written four paragraphs about a movie starring a RealDoll, I find myself wanting to talk about RealDolls in general. And the fact that I really, really want one.
I’ve wanted a RealDoll ever since I first saw them on an episode of HBO’s “Real Sex” (way, way back when I still had things like cable and internet). It will probably be one of my first purchases after winning a multi-million dollar lottery jackpot.
I’ve actually got stories involving RealDolls on my long, long list of as-yet unwritten erotic stories. (Is there a forthcoming post in the works bitching about writer’s block? Yes there is.) Including a series of stories about a guy and his RealDoll that – while not nearly as wholesome as “Lars and the Real Girl” – does include a few planned installments with no sexual content.
The creator/inventor of the RealDoll claims that they were originally just intended as a more authentic form of mannequin for artistic purposes, and that it was customer demand that caused him to turn them into sex toys. (Who here actually believes that? Can I get a show of hands? Yeah . . . I see NO hands raised, Mr. RealDoll Guy. Looks like nobody else buys that, either.)
I know that there are some people who DO own them simply as art objects. There are also nude photographers who use them as always-available models. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn of rich women whose poor upbringing denied them Barbie dolls owning them now, along with a closet-full of expensive designer clothing to dress them up in.
I’m an action figure junkie. I’ve got a bunch of the old 3&3/4-inch Star Wars figures from another lifetime ago. I’m also a big fan of the 6-inch scale Marvel Legends figures (and wish they were cheaper, so that I could afford more of them). But the action figure I’d really like to have is the starting-at-$6500-RealDoll.
I wrote some script pages for a comic book series that never happened years ago, and one of the superhero characters had a RealDoll at home that was his ‘sidekick’: Effigy Girl. So I could get away with owning a RealDoll in an Effigy Girl costume and claim it was just a big action figure of one of my characters, and didn’t mark me as a perv at all. (Right? Perfectly wholesome. People would believe that.)
Of course, my RealDoll would undoubtedly be a redhead, so I’d also have to get her a Batgirl costume. A proper Batgirl costume. Classic comic book authentic Barbara Gordon-style. No Cassandra Cain Batgirl. No purple 60s-era Yvonne Craig stuff. No movie-inspired black leather. We’re talking the old-school gray bodysuit with yellow bat emblem on chest. Matching canary yellow boots, gloves, and utility belt. Blue-black cape and cowl. (Does somebody have himself a little Batgirl fetish? Yes he does.)
You could take a hot redhead RealDoll and a whole closet full of costumes and have yourself an interesting action figure experience. Not just Batgirl, but also the full array of Marvel Comics’ redhead characters . . . Jean Grey/Marvel Girl/Phoenix, the Scarlet Witch, Firestar, Ms. Marvel II (Sharon Ventura, pre-She-Thing), and others too numerous to count. Throw in a bunch of generic ‘uniform’ costumes (Star Fleet, Ghostbuster, SG 1 commando, STARS team, Earthforce and Babylon 5 uniforms, etc.) and you’ve got the ultimate life size action figure for the horny fanboy.
Abyss Creations (the creators of RealDoll) will even throw in an unnatural skintone for a little extra money. I’m strange enough to see the appeal of this. But it makes me wish that they offered a 6’7” body in their inventory. Sure, my Batgirl fetish is more pronounced then my She-Hulk fetish, but if you offer green skin, you might as well go all the way, right?
If Abyss was smart, they’d pick up licenses from places like Paramount and LucasFilm and start making Klingon and Twi’lek RealDolls. Klingons would be fairly easy. Just a little more silicone on the forehead and other key body parts. Twi’leks might be a little harder. The long head tails might pose a balance issue. I don’t know. I’m not a sex toy engineer or anything.
Back before the Sharper Image stores went belly-up, they sold $5000 life-sized Stormtrooper statues. And all they did was stand there. If wealthy geeks plunked down five grand for something to just stand in the corner and look neat, can you imagine what wealthy horny geeks would plunk down for something to lie in bed with them and . . . well, do a little more than just ‘look neat’ (nudge nudge, wink wink)?
Yeah, it’s very doubtful that Lucas would grant a Star Wars license to a sex toy manufacturer, but a perv can dream, can’t he? If I could order a purple Twi’lek RealDoll from Abyss, I’d start saving up my money today.
RealDoll doesn’t just do prosthetic girls, either . . . they also make a male RealDoll. You can get SheMale RealDolls, too, but they’re a custom order, and therefore more expensive. It makes me wonder what other innovations we’ll eventually see from Abyss. Sure, the gender bases are pretty well covered by male, female, and shemale. But I want more body types. Not necessarily for me, but for my fellow pervs. I want to see a BBW RealDoll. (Or would that much silicone be cost prohibitive?)
Okay, so . . . I guess the question is: If I did have a RealDoll, would I violate it? Would I lay her down and have my way with her, fulfilling my nasty carnal urges?
Hmm . . .
Oh, of course I would. Maybe before even pulling her out of the box. Right outside my house, while the UPS man stands there transfixed in horror.
I’m sure that a RealDoll’s silicone vagina wouldn’t be anywhere near as good as the real thing, it would still be a different sensation than my right hand. (And man, could I ever use the variation!) Cold silicone isn’t going to taste like warm flesh, but the topography should be similar enough to give me practice at various oral skills. Bedding a RealDoll – in the absence of an actual woman who’s willing to have sex with me – would be a worthwhile use of my time.
(Plus, I could set the timer on my digital camera and get pictures of myself having sex with Batgirl!)
Truthfully, the real question is: Would fucking her lose me my virginity?
If the male virginity is lost by PIV sex, does it matter if the ‘V’ in the PIV is an artificial ‘V’? If it looks like a vagina, walks like a vagina, and quacks like a vagina, it’s probably a vagina. Wait – do vaginas quack? Am I thinking of ducks? Do I have that phrase completely wrong?
Lost virginity may be a philosophy question, and I’ve got a headache. Screw it, let’s start over.
Truthfully, the real question is: At 450 pounds, am I too heavy to fuck a RealDoll without splitting her open?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
My BDSM Experience
Sexual experience? Pretty much zero.
BDSM experience? Surprisingly more.
I think that makes me somewhat unusual. I’m pretty sure that there are a lot more people who have been having sex, and are now looking to get into BDSM than there are people who have been having BDSM, and are now looking to get into sex. That just doesn’t seem to be the standard progression of things. I mean, I haven’t done a study or anything, but it would really surprise me to discover that there are a lot of people in my position.
I’ve never had an orgasm that wasn’t self-inflicted, but I have had a naked woman handcuffed to my bedframe. The majority of my (far too infrequent and far too few) encounters with C.J. included some kind of standard BDSM component. Bondage. Spanking. The facial as display of dominance. Nipple torture. And so on.
When C.J. and I started the erotic correspondence that eventually let to said naked body being chained to my bed, we pretty much started out with an ongoing ‘what are you all into’ conversation. When she told me that she liked bondage and wanted to be tied up, I thought my heart was going to explode. (Another part of me did explode, with a little stimulation, as I reread her letters over and over again.)
Bondage has always been an interest. Even when I was a kid. I’d seen naked women in the pages of Penthouse at a friend’s house, and while I didn’t know exactly what sex entailed, I knew that I wanted to have it. (Actually, young expert that I was, I KNEW what ‘having sex’ was – it just turns out that I was just wrong about what I KNEW that I knew.) And I was pretty sure that it would be easier for the guy to have sex if the girl was tied up. Couldn’t get away, and couldn’t stop you.
Of course, looking back on it, the description sounds like rape. But questions of consent / nonconsent weren’t really part of the fantasy. Those fantasy ropes and chains might have actually been a means of bypassing those concepts altogether. I had a paper route, and during that time I had all of the standard fantasies about having sex with one of my female customers (usually as a tip, or in exchange for a month’s subscription to the paper). But the most-often dwelled-upon fantasy wasn’t the housewife offering herself to me, but rather the husband offering me his tied-up wife. The fantasy wife never struggled to get away, never protested my actions. Obviously she was into it.
Anyway, I can’t tie a knot to save my life. (I’m lucky my shoes stay on my feet.) So my first bondage experience with C.J. was centered around duct tape. Wrists taped together, ankles taped together. I think I may have even taped her big toes together.
It wasn’t long after that experience that I invested in a couple of sets of police-style handcuffs and a set leg-irons. Which resulted in her being handcuffed to my bed in a half-spread eagle position.
I eventually duct-taped some sort of thingamawhatzit found at the hardware store to each of her wrists and ankles, and used the attachment points to connect them to chains that I’d looped around my head- and foot-board. Sadly this resulted in bruises on her wrists (and ankles, presumably) that she didn’t want to ever have to explain to family, friends, and co-workers again, so that was the end of that specific bondage formula.
During the ongoing ‘what are you all into’ conversation, C.J. also said something to the effect of ‘abuse leaves me cold, but discipline gets me wet’. There was talk of me giving her orders to carry out (primarily via mail during the lengthy periods between flesh-to-flesh visits). Nothing ever came of that. Oh, I started the process several times, giving her orders to carry out, but it seemed that she liked the notion of being given orders more than she actually liked being given orders.
‘I like a little pain with my pleasure’ was another interesting piece of information she gave me. (Her liking a little bit of pain led me to discover that I really, really like abusing nipples.) She also had a fondness for the spanking.
There was a lot of stuff I’d propose in letters that she’d write back about saying, ‘yeah, I’ll let you do that to me,’ but then shied away from during the actual physical encounters.
The last time I saw C.J. was back in the year 2000. We had already moved from letters to emails, and we’ll still send the occasional email to one another. But she’s made it clear that the door has closed on any physical stuff between us.
From 2000 to 2008 my only BDSM exposure was porn and fantasies. But then, earlier this year, I went to KinkFest. And the final play party of the event saw me taking a wooden paddle to the bare back of a bottom who was flat on her stomach, attached to a long spanking bench with leather restraints.
The first play party of the event was a bust. All I did was watch. (Okay, I also had a minor seizure. But that was late into the thing, and I don’t think that potential partners were avoiding me because of that.) [HOLY CRAP, I just realized I haven’t mentioned the seizures yet. Okay, well, I’m going to hold off on that for a future post. But NEAR future.] When the party was done for the night, I started getting depressed over not having actually done anything with anyone.
But the next day when I was in the vendor’s room, one of the merchants had decided that I was going to buy one of her handmade wooden paddles. And for some reason, instead of just saying, ‘No thank you’ and walking away, I kept listening to her sales pitch. Every time I offered a reason why I didn’t need her product, she offered me a reason why I did. I finally told her that I’d probably buy her paddle if I had someone to play with, but since I had nobody to use it on, I had no reason to buy it. Her response to that was, “I’ll play with anybody, as long as it’s public. Are you going to the play party tonight?”
So, I bought the damn paddle.
After money (and carved wood) exchanged hands, I asked her just what she all did when playing in public, and her response was, ‘Pretty much everything.’ I was thrilled. I didn’t know that there was a long unspoken block of fine print that accompanied that declaration.
With ‘pretty much everything’ I was prepared – among other things – to lose my virginity. But when we met up in the dungeon, she started going over her ground rules. No sex. And while she’d be topless, she was keeping her panties on. (Panties, tights, and socks, as it turned out).
Okay. A little disappointing, but still – she liked being hit with a wooden stick, and I had a wooden stick, so . . . there was still stuff to do.
She also told me just shortly before we started that I wasn’t allowed to strike her legs. She had a nerve condition that caused intense cramps in her legs when impact play was directed there. Intense cramps to the point of needing to be hauled out of the dungeon in a wheelchair. Given all of my various medical nonsense, I had no problems with her having certain conditions that needed meeting. I only wish that she’d have been completely up front about all of this at the beginning. (Yes, I still would have bought the paddle from her. I just wouldn’t have let my fantasies about ‘later that evening’ run as far or as wild as they did in the intervening time.)
Before she submitted her body to my paddle, she let me watch her undergo a violet wand session. (I was familiar with the device, but had never seen it in practice.) After that was finished and she’d rested up enough for more play, I took my turn. And since I was (more or less) new at this whole thing, the guy who’d been making her jump and squeal with the violet wand stuck around to help guide me through administering my first in-public beating, as well as answering any questions I might have for a more experienced top.
The areas where I could and could not hit her were clearly outlined for me – they made sure I stayed away from her legs, and told me to limit the attention I paid to her ass (a little too much violet wand play focused there for her to be comfortable taking a paddling), along with the standard ‘don’t hit the spine, don’t hit the kidneys, etc.’
I started with fairly soft blows, and once she told me she could handle harder, I gave harder. When she finally called an end to it, the areas of her back I had been allowed to hit were bright red, and her pupils were dilated with endorphin high. And I felt like I’d accomplished something.
That was the end of my BDSM activities to date. Physical activities, anyway. I’m currently having an email relationship with this adorable little slut who’s very much into verbal abuse and humiliation. [She’s not really a slut, but with the abuse/humiliation fetish, ‘slut’ is pretty much the nicest and most respectful term that the rules of our correspondence allow me to use in describing her.] We’re currently not even a dozen back-and-forth volleys of email to each other, and she keeps telling me ‘more’. More insults, more degradation, and more intense scenarios. I do my best to accommodate her, and it’s gotten to where I sometimes can’t believe the text my fingers type up for her. (Yikes! I just said I wanted to do WHAT to her? How sick am I?)
Then I realize that since I’m mainly just telling her what she wants to hear, it’s not me that’s sick, it’s her. All I’m doing is typing. She’s the one soaking her panties while reading it. And despite how utterly worthless she is, I still waste some of my precious time bothering to sent her more emails filled with incredible perversity. But that’s okay. I’ll eventually recoup my time. I figure that I’ll take it out on her tender flesh when she finally gets off of her lazy ass and comes over here to be put in her place in person. Assuming, of course, that I can stand to be in the same room with a piece of human garbage like her for long enough to take whatever pleasure her probably already-all-used-up slut’s body has to offer me.
The above paragraph was written for her benefit. And was incredibly tame compared to the emails. Also, she lives three time zones away from me, so us meeting in person might not ever happen.
She’s also convinced me to start sending her dares to perform. We’re just at the beginning of that – as I write this she’s received one dare but not yet completed it. And I’ve got a growing list of dares she’ll be given once she starts completing them. There’s definitely a future blog post in that material.
I’m not quite at the point in the Quest to Lose My Virginity where my standards are simply, ‘Must have a pulse,’ but it’s getting there. Currently the ideal situation is finding not just a woman who’s hot for me, but also one that’s into BDSM (or curious about trying it), with strong submissive tendencies.
The big fantasy is playing around with people into this stuff for awhile, and then finding a submissive to form a relationship with. And while I want it for exactly what it is, there’s also the manner of bragging rights that would come with it. Can you imagine the BDSM cred I’d have? Sure, I’m starting out fairly late in life, but . . . ‘I lost my virginity to a woman in chains, and none of my sex has ever been strictly vanilla’ just sounds impressive, doesn’t it?
BDSM experience? Surprisingly more.
I think that makes me somewhat unusual. I’m pretty sure that there are a lot more people who have been having sex, and are now looking to get into BDSM than there are people who have been having BDSM, and are now looking to get into sex. That just doesn’t seem to be the standard progression of things. I mean, I haven’t done a study or anything, but it would really surprise me to discover that there are a lot of people in my position.
I’ve never had an orgasm that wasn’t self-inflicted, but I have had a naked woman handcuffed to my bedframe. The majority of my (far too infrequent and far too few) encounters with C.J. included some kind of standard BDSM component. Bondage. Spanking. The facial as display of dominance. Nipple torture. And so on.
When C.J. and I started the erotic correspondence that eventually let to said naked body being chained to my bed, we pretty much started out with an ongoing ‘what are you all into’ conversation. When she told me that she liked bondage and wanted to be tied up, I thought my heart was going to explode. (Another part of me did explode, with a little stimulation, as I reread her letters over and over again.)
Bondage has always been an interest. Even when I was a kid. I’d seen naked women in the pages of Penthouse at a friend’s house, and while I didn’t know exactly what sex entailed, I knew that I wanted to have it. (Actually, young expert that I was, I KNEW what ‘having sex’ was – it just turns out that I was just wrong about what I KNEW that I knew.) And I was pretty sure that it would be easier for the guy to have sex if the girl was tied up. Couldn’t get away, and couldn’t stop you.
Of course, looking back on it, the description sounds like rape. But questions of consent / nonconsent weren’t really part of the fantasy. Those fantasy ropes and chains might have actually been a means of bypassing those concepts altogether. I had a paper route, and during that time I had all of the standard fantasies about having sex with one of my female customers (usually as a tip, or in exchange for a month’s subscription to the paper). But the most-often dwelled-upon fantasy wasn’t the housewife offering herself to me, but rather the husband offering me his tied-up wife. The fantasy wife never struggled to get away, never protested my actions. Obviously she was into it.
Anyway, I can’t tie a knot to save my life. (I’m lucky my shoes stay on my feet.) So my first bondage experience with C.J. was centered around duct tape. Wrists taped together, ankles taped together. I think I may have even taped her big toes together.
It wasn’t long after that experience that I invested in a couple of sets of police-style handcuffs and a set leg-irons. Which resulted in her being handcuffed to my bed in a half-spread eagle position.
I eventually duct-taped some sort of thingamawhatzit found at the hardware store to each of her wrists and ankles, and used the attachment points to connect them to chains that I’d looped around my head- and foot-board. Sadly this resulted in bruises on her wrists (and ankles, presumably) that she didn’t want to ever have to explain to family, friends, and co-workers again, so that was the end of that specific bondage formula.
During the ongoing ‘what are you all into’ conversation, C.J. also said something to the effect of ‘abuse leaves me cold, but discipline gets me wet’. There was talk of me giving her orders to carry out (primarily via mail during the lengthy periods between flesh-to-flesh visits). Nothing ever came of that. Oh, I started the process several times, giving her orders to carry out, but it seemed that she liked the notion of being given orders more than she actually liked being given orders.
‘I like a little pain with my pleasure’ was another interesting piece of information she gave me. (Her liking a little bit of pain led me to discover that I really, really like abusing nipples.) She also had a fondness for the spanking.
There was a lot of stuff I’d propose in letters that she’d write back about saying, ‘yeah, I’ll let you do that to me,’ but then shied away from during the actual physical encounters.
The last time I saw C.J. was back in the year 2000. We had already moved from letters to emails, and we’ll still send the occasional email to one another. But she’s made it clear that the door has closed on any physical stuff between us.
From 2000 to 2008 my only BDSM exposure was porn and fantasies. But then, earlier this year, I went to KinkFest. And the final play party of the event saw me taking a wooden paddle to the bare back of a bottom who was flat on her stomach, attached to a long spanking bench with leather restraints.
The first play party of the event was a bust. All I did was watch. (Okay, I also had a minor seizure. But that was late into the thing, and I don’t think that potential partners were avoiding me because of that.) [HOLY CRAP, I just realized I haven’t mentioned the seizures yet. Okay, well, I’m going to hold off on that for a future post. But NEAR future.] When the party was done for the night, I started getting depressed over not having actually done anything with anyone.
But the next day when I was in the vendor’s room, one of the merchants had decided that I was going to buy one of her handmade wooden paddles. And for some reason, instead of just saying, ‘No thank you’ and walking away, I kept listening to her sales pitch. Every time I offered a reason why I didn’t need her product, she offered me a reason why I did. I finally told her that I’d probably buy her paddle if I had someone to play with, but since I had nobody to use it on, I had no reason to buy it. Her response to that was, “I’ll play with anybody, as long as it’s public. Are you going to the play party tonight?”
So, I bought the damn paddle.
After money (and carved wood) exchanged hands, I asked her just what she all did when playing in public, and her response was, ‘Pretty much everything.’ I was thrilled. I didn’t know that there was a long unspoken block of fine print that accompanied that declaration.
With ‘pretty much everything’ I was prepared – among other things – to lose my virginity. But when we met up in the dungeon, she started going over her ground rules. No sex. And while she’d be topless, she was keeping her panties on. (Panties, tights, and socks, as it turned out).
Okay. A little disappointing, but still – she liked being hit with a wooden stick, and I had a wooden stick, so . . . there was still stuff to do.
She also told me just shortly before we started that I wasn’t allowed to strike her legs. She had a nerve condition that caused intense cramps in her legs when impact play was directed there. Intense cramps to the point of needing to be hauled out of the dungeon in a wheelchair. Given all of my various medical nonsense, I had no problems with her having certain conditions that needed meeting. I only wish that she’d have been completely up front about all of this at the beginning. (Yes, I still would have bought the paddle from her. I just wouldn’t have let my fantasies about ‘later that evening’ run as far or as wild as they did in the intervening time.)
Before she submitted her body to my paddle, she let me watch her undergo a violet wand session. (I was familiar with the device, but had never seen it in practice.) After that was finished and she’d rested up enough for more play, I took my turn. And since I was (more or less) new at this whole thing, the guy who’d been making her jump and squeal with the violet wand stuck around to help guide me through administering my first in-public beating, as well as answering any questions I might have for a more experienced top.
The areas where I could and could not hit her were clearly outlined for me – they made sure I stayed away from her legs, and told me to limit the attention I paid to her ass (a little too much violet wand play focused there for her to be comfortable taking a paddling), along with the standard ‘don’t hit the spine, don’t hit the kidneys, etc.’
I started with fairly soft blows, and once she told me she could handle harder, I gave harder. When she finally called an end to it, the areas of her back I had been allowed to hit were bright red, and her pupils were dilated with endorphin high. And I felt like I’d accomplished something.
That was the end of my BDSM activities to date. Physical activities, anyway. I’m currently having an email relationship with this adorable little slut who’s very much into verbal abuse and humiliation. [She’s not really a slut, but with the abuse/humiliation fetish, ‘slut’ is pretty much the nicest and most respectful term that the rules of our correspondence allow me to use in describing her.] We’re currently not even a dozen back-and-forth volleys of email to each other, and she keeps telling me ‘more’. More insults, more degradation, and more intense scenarios. I do my best to accommodate her, and it’s gotten to where I sometimes can’t believe the text my fingers type up for her. (Yikes! I just said I wanted to do WHAT to her? How sick am I?)
Then I realize that since I’m mainly just telling her what she wants to hear, it’s not me that’s sick, it’s her. All I’m doing is typing. She’s the one soaking her panties while reading it. And despite how utterly worthless she is, I still waste some of my precious time bothering to sent her more emails filled with incredible perversity. But that’s okay. I’ll eventually recoup my time. I figure that I’ll take it out on her tender flesh when she finally gets off of her lazy ass and comes over here to be put in her place in person. Assuming, of course, that I can stand to be in the same room with a piece of human garbage like her for long enough to take whatever pleasure her probably already-all-used-up slut’s body has to offer me.
The above paragraph was written for her benefit. And was incredibly tame compared to the emails. Also, she lives three time zones away from me, so us meeting in person might not ever happen.
She’s also convinced me to start sending her dares to perform. We’re just at the beginning of that – as I write this she’s received one dare but not yet completed it. And I’ve got a growing list of dares she’ll be given once she starts completing them. There’s definitely a future blog post in that material.
I’m not quite at the point in the Quest to Lose My Virginity where my standards are simply, ‘Must have a pulse,’ but it’s getting there. Currently the ideal situation is finding not just a woman who’s hot for me, but also one that’s into BDSM (or curious about trying it), with strong submissive tendencies.
The big fantasy is playing around with people into this stuff for awhile, and then finding a submissive to form a relationship with. And while I want it for exactly what it is, there’s also the manner of bragging rights that would come with it. Can you imagine the BDSM cred I’d have? Sure, I’m starting out fairly late in life, but . . . ‘I lost my virginity to a woman in chains, and none of my sex has ever been strictly vanilla’ just sounds impressive, doesn’t it?
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Why I'm Still a Virgin
As part of my efforts to become part of the local BDSM community, I attended an event called “KinkFest” in Portland earlier this year (March 28 - 30). Informative workshops during the day. And at night . . . they set up a dungeon in the conference center, and hosted a play party. This went on both Friday and Saturday nights. I wandered around the dungeon Friday night, watching people play. And for most of that night, I was wearing a sign around my neck which read, “37 Year Old Virgin (Please Help)”.
Saturday night at the play party, someone who’d noticed me the night before came up to me and asked, “You’re not really still a virgin, are you?” I told her that, sadly, I was indeed still a virgin. Her follow-up question was a very shocked, “Why?”
Her presentation of that question amused me. Just the one single word, but when spoken with particular tone and inflection, backed by body language and facial expression, it seemed to be both accusation and interrogation. Why was I still a virgin? Why on earth would I be this old, and not have had sex yet? What was wrong with me? And what was I doing at a BDSM play party if I wasn’t already sexually active? Three letters and a verbal punctuation mark, and it asked all of that. And more.
Why am I still a virgin?
My response to her was fairly short, by my usual long-winded standard. I simply explained to her that I’ve been chronically ill since the age of 17. Chronically ill, and pretty much a shut-in. I told her that I’ve spent the last 20 years waiting for my life to resume. I keep thinking that just as soon as I’m well again, I’m going to go meet a woman, and shortly thereafter start having sex. (And not just sex – “As soon as I’m well again” I plan to start a lot of things I haven’t been doing.) But after 20 years of chronic illness with no end in sight, I’m finally being forced to acknowledge the fairly obvious realization that I can’t simply put these things off until I’m well again. Because I probably won’t ever be well again.
When I told her that, she looked at me kind of sadly, and said, “Oh. I guess that makes sense.”
Since that much of my explanation made sense to her, I stopped there. I could have gone on. I could have given her additional reasons for my virgin status.
Growing up, I was a good Catholic boy. Which explains why I was still a virgin when I got sick in the first place. I had friends who had started having sex in the fifth grade. Not me. I was still an altar boy at that point. So pure and innocent I hadn’t even been molested. (C’mon, you can’t mention being an altar boy and not go for the obvious molestation joke. I think there’s a law!)
There were girls in my class who suddenly disappeared, with it being common knowledge that they were pregnant and going to school in another town. For those of us who were still young and innocent, our reaction wasn’t, “Oh my God, she got pregnant,” but rather “Oh, my God – she’s been having sex!” The girl I had a crush on in the sixth grade started having sex with the class scumbag. She moved to California to live with her father between the 8th grade and our Freshman year, and while there weren’t rampant rumors, I sometimes wonder if this was a pregnancy-related relocation.
I discovered masturbation in the seventh grade. And quickly took it up as a hobby. (I think that my masturbation habit might have been a contributing factor in just how short my brief interest in becoming a priest was.) I knew that I wanted to have sex. I thought that once I found the right girl and got married, (okay, probably engaged to be married) I’d start having sex, and it would be the greatest thing ever.
In high school, I passed up several opportunities to have sex. Girls were by no means throwing themselves at me, but a couple of my female friends hinted that they wouldn’t mind being pursued. If I knew then what I know now, believe me, I’d’ve pursued.
My senior year of high school was when I got sick. Started with what I thought was the flu, then pink eye. The pink eye took a long time to clear up, and the flu-like symptoms just never went away. I got a really bad headache that’s now 20 years old. Started putting on a ridiculous amount of weight for no discernable reason. All sorts of fun ailments.
A couple of years later my mom introduced me to a woman she worked with. This woman was only a year older than me, shared a lot of my interests, and – while not a classic media-defined beauty – turned me on something fierce. So, I abandoned my chaste way of thinking and decided to finally pursue. I wanted sex.
She, however, didn’t want sex with me. And over the course of a month or so of sporadic hanging out together, she let me clumsily fumble my way almost (but not quite) to ‘third base’ before she informed me of that. I tried to ignore all of the now retroactively mixed messages, and took the ‘no’ for a ‘no’. She quit coming over shortly thereafter. [This is actually a longer story than can be contained in a paragraph, and might become a future blog entry.]
But the damage had been done. I was horny and wanted to do something about it. The problem was that in addition to being horny and eager for sex, I was also obese. Chronically ill. And poor.
“Hello. I’m a big fat guy. Do you want to go out sometime? Any plans we make are subject to change at any time because I might be having a bad health day. If we go anywhere, you’ll have to pay. Oh, and the state of Oregon won’t issue me a driver’s license because of my health problems, so you’ll have to come get me, and then take me home when we’re done. But other than that, I’m quite the catch. Really. Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?”
Yeah, I was just rolling in chicks. In my imagination. (Not really. Not even my imagination would let me be rolling in chicks. My sex dreams didn’t even rise above an R-rating. Lots of scene shifts and jump cuts where the sex should have been.)
About the time that I was squeezing the bare breasts and fingering the toe cleavage of mom’s work friend, I finally found a doctor who gave me a diagnosis. Chronic fatigue immune dysfunction syndrome. No real treatment. Certainly no cure. The words of hope I clung to were the first half of the following sentence: “Sometimes it just goes away, sometimes it doesn’t.”
With an actual diagnosis in hand, I was able to apply for SSI – Supplemental Security Income, courtesy of the disability arm of the Social Security department. So I did. And was rejected. Then I reapplied. And was rejected again (re-rejected?) Re-reapplied. Re-re-rejected. (Anybody else suddenly want to watch Max Headroom?) Eventually I was given SSI benefits, and started getting somewhere in the neighborhood of $500 a month from them.
[I consider that the financial ‘good old days’. A bunch of stuff has happened since then, and I’m now currently getting a reduced amount of SSI, coupled with a portion of my deceased mother’s Social Security. Both checks add up to just over $300 a month. Can anybody spare a buck or two (or ten, fifty, a hundred, etc.)?]
Needing a creative outlet, I started doing a zine (this, back in the ink-on-paper days of self-publishing, before the internet had become what it is now). It was either find a creative outlet, or blow my brains out. I zined (hey, if blog is a verb – “I blogged last night” – then so is zine) for a little over four years.
My odd little publication was listed in a magazine called “Factsheet 5”, which was a zine review publication and the hub of the zine industry. I never made money on the thing, but it wasn’t the most expensive hobby you can imagine, so it gave me something to do with my time.
The zine is how I met C.J. (Not her real name. Not even her real initials.) She lived in Oregon, read a review of my zine in “Factsheet 5”, and send off for an issue. Then another (and so on). She was my geographically closest reader who didn’t already know me from before I started zine-ing. She wrote me a letter, and we started corresponding. I used my clever words – both in the zines and in the letters – to make her like me before she actually saw me, and when we met in person, it was too late. Heh heh heh.
The correspondence turned . . . erotic, and we met a second time, this time with dirty intentions. Foreplay-only intentions, and after a few similar encounters, she gave me condoms and told me that she wanted me to fuck her.
You can sense disaster approaching, can’t you? I mean, we’re at the point in the story where I have sex, but you already know that long after this event, I’m still a virgin. So what, you ask, could possibly have gone wrong?
What I haven’t mentioned yet is that C.J. is what is referred to as a BBW. Big Beautiful Woman. The politically correct euphemism for ‘a fat chick’. Which I liked. A lot. I’ve got a thing for BBWs. They’re hot. But while they’re great to look at, when it comes to sex, they’re built for skinny guys with big dicks. And I’m the opposite of that.
My attempts to violate C.J. led me to discover the following equation: “Fat woman” + “Obese man” + “Small penis” = “Abstinence”. No matter what we tried, we simply couldn’t find a position in which we could, uh . . . interlock. No sex. No anal sex, either (we tried). She had jaw issues, so the most I ever got was half a blowjob. (And always the first half, which is the half that doesn’t include an orgasm for me.)
I was able to go down on her. And I could get my fingers everywhere that my penis wouldn’t reach. So it wasn’t like we didn’t have any fun. Plus, she was kinky. She had toys, she let me secure her to my bed with handcuffs, chains, duct tape, etc.
But she didn’t live close enough for her to make frequent trips out to see me. And after another long story which I might also elaborate on in a future installment (or installments) of the blog, we were through.
Is this getting too long? I’m writing this post prior to actually posting the previous one, and I have no idea how long this is going to look when formatted on the screen. The word count function puts me closing in on the 2000 word mark.
Fortunately, I think I’ve already covered most of the whole ‘why I’m still a virgin’ thing. Everything I can think of at the moment, anyway. I’m sure that there are other contributing factors, but what I’ve written here is a decent synopsis of my sexless sexlife.
Hopefully, the entirety of my sexless sexlife. I’m at the point where I now need to find a sexual outlet, or blow my brains out. (Just kidding. Sort of.)
Saturday night at the play party, someone who’d noticed me the night before came up to me and asked, “You’re not really still a virgin, are you?” I told her that, sadly, I was indeed still a virgin. Her follow-up question was a very shocked, “Why?”
Her presentation of that question amused me. Just the one single word, but when spoken with particular tone and inflection, backed by body language and facial expression, it seemed to be both accusation and interrogation. Why was I still a virgin? Why on earth would I be this old, and not have had sex yet? What was wrong with me? And what was I doing at a BDSM play party if I wasn’t already sexually active? Three letters and a verbal punctuation mark, and it asked all of that. And more.
Why am I still a virgin?
My response to her was fairly short, by my usual long-winded standard. I simply explained to her that I’ve been chronically ill since the age of 17. Chronically ill, and pretty much a shut-in. I told her that I’ve spent the last 20 years waiting for my life to resume. I keep thinking that just as soon as I’m well again, I’m going to go meet a woman, and shortly thereafter start having sex. (And not just sex – “As soon as I’m well again” I plan to start a lot of things I haven’t been doing.) But after 20 years of chronic illness with no end in sight, I’m finally being forced to acknowledge the fairly obvious realization that I can’t simply put these things off until I’m well again. Because I probably won’t ever be well again.
When I told her that, she looked at me kind of sadly, and said, “Oh. I guess that makes sense.”
Since that much of my explanation made sense to her, I stopped there. I could have gone on. I could have given her additional reasons for my virgin status.
Growing up, I was a good Catholic boy. Which explains why I was still a virgin when I got sick in the first place. I had friends who had started having sex in the fifth grade. Not me. I was still an altar boy at that point. So pure and innocent I hadn’t even been molested. (C’mon, you can’t mention being an altar boy and not go for the obvious molestation joke. I think there’s a law!)
There were girls in my class who suddenly disappeared, with it being common knowledge that they were pregnant and going to school in another town. For those of us who were still young and innocent, our reaction wasn’t, “Oh my God, she got pregnant,” but rather “Oh, my God – she’s been having sex!” The girl I had a crush on in the sixth grade started having sex with the class scumbag. She moved to California to live with her father between the 8th grade and our Freshman year, and while there weren’t rampant rumors, I sometimes wonder if this was a pregnancy-related relocation.
I discovered masturbation in the seventh grade. And quickly took it up as a hobby. (I think that my masturbation habit might have been a contributing factor in just how short my brief interest in becoming a priest was.) I knew that I wanted to have sex. I thought that once I found the right girl and got married, (okay, probably engaged to be married) I’d start having sex, and it would be the greatest thing ever.
In high school, I passed up several opportunities to have sex. Girls were by no means throwing themselves at me, but a couple of my female friends hinted that they wouldn’t mind being pursued. If I knew then what I know now, believe me, I’d’ve pursued.
My senior year of high school was when I got sick. Started with what I thought was the flu, then pink eye. The pink eye took a long time to clear up, and the flu-like symptoms just never went away. I got a really bad headache that’s now 20 years old. Started putting on a ridiculous amount of weight for no discernable reason. All sorts of fun ailments.
A couple of years later my mom introduced me to a woman she worked with. This woman was only a year older than me, shared a lot of my interests, and – while not a classic media-defined beauty – turned me on something fierce. So, I abandoned my chaste way of thinking and decided to finally pursue. I wanted sex.
She, however, didn’t want sex with me. And over the course of a month or so of sporadic hanging out together, she let me clumsily fumble my way almost (but not quite) to ‘third base’ before she informed me of that. I tried to ignore all of the now retroactively mixed messages, and took the ‘no’ for a ‘no’. She quit coming over shortly thereafter. [This is actually a longer story than can be contained in a paragraph, and might become a future blog entry.]
But the damage had been done. I was horny and wanted to do something about it. The problem was that in addition to being horny and eager for sex, I was also obese. Chronically ill. And poor.
“Hello. I’m a big fat guy. Do you want to go out sometime? Any plans we make are subject to change at any time because I might be having a bad health day. If we go anywhere, you’ll have to pay. Oh, and the state of Oregon won’t issue me a driver’s license because of my health problems, so you’ll have to come get me, and then take me home when we’re done. But other than that, I’m quite the catch. Really. Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?”
Yeah, I was just rolling in chicks. In my imagination. (Not really. Not even my imagination would let me be rolling in chicks. My sex dreams didn’t even rise above an R-rating. Lots of scene shifts and jump cuts where the sex should have been.)
About the time that I was squeezing the bare breasts and fingering the toe cleavage of mom’s work friend, I finally found a doctor who gave me a diagnosis. Chronic fatigue immune dysfunction syndrome. No real treatment. Certainly no cure. The words of hope I clung to were the first half of the following sentence: “Sometimes it just goes away, sometimes it doesn’t.”
With an actual diagnosis in hand, I was able to apply for SSI – Supplemental Security Income, courtesy of the disability arm of the Social Security department. So I did. And was rejected. Then I reapplied. And was rejected again (re-rejected?) Re-reapplied. Re-re-rejected. (Anybody else suddenly want to watch Max Headroom?) Eventually I was given SSI benefits, and started getting somewhere in the neighborhood of $500 a month from them.
[I consider that the financial ‘good old days’. A bunch of stuff has happened since then, and I’m now currently getting a reduced amount of SSI, coupled with a portion of my deceased mother’s Social Security. Both checks add up to just over $300 a month. Can anybody spare a buck or two (or ten, fifty, a hundred, etc.)?]
Needing a creative outlet, I started doing a zine (this, back in the ink-on-paper days of self-publishing, before the internet had become what it is now). It was either find a creative outlet, or blow my brains out. I zined (hey, if blog is a verb – “I blogged last night” – then so is zine) for a little over four years.
My odd little publication was listed in a magazine called “Factsheet 5”, which was a zine review publication and the hub of the zine industry. I never made money on the thing, but it wasn’t the most expensive hobby you can imagine, so it gave me something to do with my time.
The zine is how I met C.J. (Not her real name. Not even her real initials.) She lived in Oregon, read a review of my zine in “Factsheet 5”, and send off for an issue. Then another (and so on). She was my geographically closest reader who didn’t already know me from before I started zine-ing. She wrote me a letter, and we started corresponding. I used my clever words – both in the zines and in the letters – to make her like me before she actually saw me, and when we met in person, it was too late. Heh heh heh.
The correspondence turned . . . erotic, and we met a second time, this time with dirty intentions. Foreplay-only intentions, and after a few similar encounters, she gave me condoms and told me that she wanted me to fuck her.
You can sense disaster approaching, can’t you? I mean, we’re at the point in the story where I have sex, but you already know that long after this event, I’m still a virgin. So what, you ask, could possibly have gone wrong?
What I haven’t mentioned yet is that C.J. is what is referred to as a BBW. Big Beautiful Woman. The politically correct euphemism for ‘a fat chick’. Which I liked. A lot. I’ve got a thing for BBWs. They’re hot. But while they’re great to look at, when it comes to sex, they’re built for skinny guys with big dicks. And I’m the opposite of that.
My attempts to violate C.J. led me to discover the following equation: “Fat woman” + “Obese man” + “Small penis” = “Abstinence”. No matter what we tried, we simply couldn’t find a position in which we could, uh . . . interlock. No sex. No anal sex, either (we tried). She had jaw issues, so the most I ever got was half a blowjob. (And always the first half, which is the half that doesn’t include an orgasm for me.)
I was able to go down on her. And I could get my fingers everywhere that my penis wouldn’t reach. So it wasn’t like we didn’t have any fun. Plus, she was kinky. She had toys, she let me secure her to my bed with handcuffs, chains, duct tape, etc.
But she didn’t live close enough for her to make frequent trips out to see me. And after another long story which I might also elaborate on in a future installment (or installments) of the blog, we were through.
Is this getting too long? I’m writing this post prior to actually posting the previous one, and I have no idea how long this is going to look when formatted on the screen. The word count function puts me closing in on the 2000 word mark.
Fortunately, I think I’ve already covered most of the whole ‘why I’m still a virgin’ thing. Everything I can think of at the moment, anyway. I’m sure that there are other contributing factors, but what I’ve written here is a decent synopsis of my sexless sexlife.
Hopefully, the entirety of my sexless sexlife. I’m at the point where I now need to find a sexual outlet, or blow my brains out. (Just kidding. Sort of.)
Introduction
Hello, and welcome to Time Delay.
Yes, it’s a sex blog. (No, the internet didn’t already have enough sex blogs. Shut up.)
Why “Time Delay”? I’m glad I pretended that you asked. I had several working titles for this thing when I decided to start blogging. “Searching For My Sex Life”. “I’M HORNY AS HELL, AND I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!” I even thought about titling it “Wish Me Fuck”, but decided that no matter how clever my word-play was, it was probably best not to put the F-word in the title. (Especially on Blogger.) I settled on “Time Delay” for several reasons.
First of all, if this were a normal sex blog, it would consist mainly of me telling stories about my sex life. And herein lies the first problem. I’m not actually having any sex. I’m hoping to remedy that fact as soon as possible, but until that happens, I’m writing a sex blog where there’s a time delay before we get to actual sex.
So why, I pretend you ask again, don’t I just tell stories of past sexual escapades? Well, . . . you know how these crazy kids today are having sex before they graduate high school? (Sometimes while they’re still in grade school.) And those that don’t, start having it shortly thereafter. Or in their early twenties? Late twenties for the late bloomers. Earlier thirties at the absolute latest? Yeah, I’m not one of those people.
Here’s my deep, dark secret: I was born in 1970, and as of this writing, I am still a virgin. There’s the second time delay. I’m on a quest to lose my virginity. Everybody else has done that already, usually 20 years or more earlier than I’m doing it. Time Delay.
And, while I’ll obviously take whatever I can get, what I’m yearning for isn’t plain vanilla sex. You see, I’m a virgin, but I haven’t been pure of heart and chaste of mind for a long, long time now. I’ve discovered that “virginity” + “sex fantasies” x “time” = “kinky fetish-filled perversion”. The time delay between me starting to think about sex (and watching porn, and reading erotica, and so on) and now means that my dirty little mind has been exposed to all sorts of nasty little thoughts and concepts that it wants me to put into practice RIGHT F’N NOW! Sure, make sweet tender love to someone if that’s what she wants, but keep the bondage gear and toys handy.
I could keep finding more forms of inherent time delay in the story of my sexual self, but there’s also a more practical, format-related reason I’m using the title.
I am blogging without internet access of my own. Which means that there’s a (you guessed it) time delay between me writing a ‘post’, and me getting somewhere with internet access (usually my sister’s apartment, or a library) to actually post it. These little internet-visits are the kind of thing that have been happening about once a week here lately.
I write a post, put it on my flash drive, eventually get somewhere with internet, move it off of my flash drive and post it. Bang. Hopefully, weekly(ish) posts. But then there are comments to consider. If I’m spending the night at my sister’s place, I can respond to any comments while I’m there, usually at about 2:00 am. But if I’m just doing a quick library run for internet, then any comments that have been posted get moved onto the flash drive unread. I read and respond to them back at home, and then post those responses next time I’m online, at which time I’m also probably uploading a new post. In this case, my replies to comments posted about blog entry #5 will be answered at the same time I’m posting blog entry #7. Whee! Like I said: Time Delay.
O.K., so that’s the introduction. Even not having had sex yet, I’ve still got lots of things to say about the subject, so I’m not worried about being able to find content to fill this space. And I do have a few ‘irons in the fire’, so to speak. I’ve been working my way into the local BDSM crowd. I’ve talked to a couple of people who’ve posted personal ads on Craigslist. So, who knows. Actual sex could happen at any time.
Stay tuned. And, uh . . . wish me fuck.
Yes, it’s a sex blog. (No, the internet didn’t already have enough sex blogs. Shut up.)
Why “Time Delay”? I’m glad I pretended that you asked. I had several working titles for this thing when I decided to start blogging. “Searching For My Sex Life”. “I’M HORNY AS HELL, AND I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!” I even thought about titling it “Wish Me Fuck”, but decided that no matter how clever my word-play was, it was probably best not to put the F-word in the title. (Especially on Blogger.) I settled on “Time Delay” for several reasons.
First of all, if this were a normal sex blog, it would consist mainly of me telling stories about my sex life. And herein lies the first problem. I’m not actually having any sex. I’m hoping to remedy that fact as soon as possible, but until that happens, I’m writing a sex blog where there’s a time delay before we get to actual sex.
So why, I pretend you ask again, don’t I just tell stories of past sexual escapades? Well, . . . you know how these crazy kids today are having sex before they graduate high school? (Sometimes while they’re still in grade school.) And those that don’t, start having it shortly thereafter. Or in their early twenties? Late twenties for the late bloomers. Earlier thirties at the absolute latest? Yeah, I’m not one of those people.
Here’s my deep, dark secret: I was born in 1970, and as of this writing, I am still a virgin. There’s the second time delay. I’m on a quest to lose my virginity. Everybody else has done that already, usually 20 years or more earlier than I’m doing it. Time Delay.
And, while I’ll obviously take whatever I can get, what I’m yearning for isn’t plain vanilla sex. You see, I’m a virgin, but I haven’t been pure of heart and chaste of mind for a long, long time now. I’ve discovered that “virginity” + “sex fantasies” x “time” = “kinky fetish-filled perversion”. The time delay between me starting to think about sex (and watching porn, and reading erotica, and so on) and now means that my dirty little mind has been exposed to all sorts of nasty little thoughts and concepts that it wants me to put into practice RIGHT F’N NOW! Sure, make sweet tender love to someone if that’s what she wants, but keep the bondage gear and toys handy.
I could keep finding more forms of inherent time delay in the story of my sexual self, but there’s also a more practical, format-related reason I’m using the title.
I am blogging without internet access of my own. Which means that there’s a (you guessed it) time delay between me writing a ‘post’, and me getting somewhere with internet access (usually my sister’s apartment, or a library) to actually post it. These little internet-visits are the kind of thing that have been happening about once a week here lately.
I write a post, put it on my flash drive, eventually get somewhere with internet, move it off of my flash drive and post it. Bang. Hopefully, weekly(ish) posts. But then there are comments to consider. If I’m spending the night at my sister’s place, I can respond to any comments while I’m there, usually at about 2:00 am. But if I’m just doing a quick library run for internet, then any comments that have been posted get moved onto the flash drive unread. I read and respond to them back at home, and then post those responses next time I’m online, at which time I’m also probably uploading a new post. In this case, my replies to comments posted about blog entry #5 will be answered at the same time I’m posting blog entry #7. Whee! Like I said: Time Delay.
O.K., so that’s the introduction. Even not having had sex yet, I’ve still got lots of things to say about the subject, so I’m not worried about being able to find content to fill this space. And I do have a few ‘irons in the fire’, so to speak. I’ve been working my way into the local BDSM crowd. I’ve talked to a couple of people who’ve posted personal ads on Craigslist. So, who knows. Actual sex could happen at any time.
Stay tuned. And, uh . . . wish me fuck.
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