Blah blah blah, not writing recap, blah blah blah, coming back later to post links to previous and next posts in series, blah blah blah, reissuing the Age Play is NOT Pedophilia Disclaimer [“Age play has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with pedophilia. Age play has nothing to do with actual biological children. It’s about adults playing with the concept of age as it relates to themselves. Legal adults pretending to be kids. And legal adults interacting with other legal adults who are pretending to be kids. Any sexual age play has no interaction with actual children.”], blah blah blah, why won’t anyone let me have sex with them?, blah blah blah blah blah . . .
Now on to some new babble.
Age Play and Me
From where I’m sitting, age play looks good to me. Of course, I’m not actually sitting anywhere near it. January’s age play sleepover was informative, but not really experiential. And the one Salem Littles Munch I’ve been to was four people, including myself.
I’ve been to no real age play parties (and certainly no sexually involved age play parties). Never had a dirty conversation with a female age player. Never had a clean conversation with a woman whom I knew to be into age play, for that matter.
I don’t even have an age play persona. Or personas. I’d be (or if we’re using optimism, “I will be”) a multiple persona guy. Because age play has several different categories with strong appeal to me.
And hey, since this is MY blog, and it usually a whole lot of me, me, me within these posts . . . let’s take a look at some of what interests me in this whole thing, shall we?
Not an AB/DL
The whole adult baby thing is not for me.
The adult-size pacifier is just frightening. Between my gag-reflex and my surgically repaired TMJ syndrome . . . uh-uh. No go. And diapers? Hmm. I’m a big fat man. In the summertime, I already have problems with rashes in what would be my ‘diaper rash’ zone. (Although, not nearly as much as when I still weighed 600 lbs. But still more than I’d like.) I don’t need to add urine-on-skin irritation to that.
That having been said . . . I can still see it’s appeal. Especially from the point of view of a chronically ill person with a far-too-active mind.
I can see where – if I could find a Mommy – it would definitely have it’s pluses. Being cared for. Completely. Not having to get up to use the bathroom. Not having to haul my tired carcass from chair to chair as I go about my day. Not even having to feed myself.
And most importantly: Not having to think. The thought of being able to regress to a mental state where my brain isn’t constantly playing with more ideas than I can ever use. Creating more stories than I could ever write, suggesting more blog topics than I have time to explore, tempting me with more and more shiny new concepts . . . Yeah, I think I could make use of quieting my brain for a time.
But . . . no. I just don’t see me being a diaper lover. Not an adult baby. Not even an age play toddler. It just doesn’t fit me personally. (I almost wish it did.)
Somewhere Between Ten and Twelve
Now here’s where I feel more at home. Around the end of the ‘school kid’ era and/or the beginning of the ‘teen’ category. That’s where the concept of sex all started for me. (Thank you, Penthouse!) That’s when I moved on from my platonic desires towards Sue (not her real name) to my lusty yearning for Rabbit (not her real name, either). That’s when I found out my penis had more functions than just urination.
That’s when I really, really, really wanted stuff to start happening.
The “I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours” Incident
I’m starting to realize that the entirety of what I think of as ‘my sex life’ has been a series of ‘almosts’. I almost had sex once. (Had a willing partner, but it turned out that we were geometrically implausible as sex partners.) I’ve almost had a blowjob. (Same woman – she’s sucked on my cock, but never for long enough to bring me close to orgasm.) And once, long ago, I almost played I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours.
Little Anathema lived just three houses down from me, on the other side of the street. And I was over there often. It was with her, behind a shed in her backyard, that this incident occurred.
It had been a slow progression of conversational events over a period of a month or so, all leading up to one day when we decided that we were both going to strip naked and let the other look at what we had.
I guess it wasn’t enough for us to drop pants and underwear and expose just the important anatomical selections. No, we each wanted to see the other NAKED.
It wasn’t so much that I wanted to see Little Anathema naked so much as I wanted to see some girl naked, and she was the only one I thought I could talk into it. I’m not so sure that the reverse was true. I saw Little Anathema as a friend. She, on the other hand, had a definite and obvious crush on me.
Anyway, we ended up behind the shed, and had the ‘who goes first’ conversation, settling on the classic arrangement of ‘we’ll both do it at the same time’. But before we could actually begin shedding the clothing that was inconveniently censoring that oh-so-close nudity . . . Little Anathema’s little sister Little Pest (not her real name – and did I really just use ‘little’ three words out of six immediately preceding the parenthesis? Weird.) appeared as if from nowhere, proclaiming, “I wanna play, too!”
Hmm. This did not bode well. We told her to go away. But she did not leave. She said that she wanted to see what I looked like naked. I said – as incredulously as I could – ‘what do you mean?’, and pretended that our plans had included nothing of the sort.
She then proceeded to tear off all of her clothing. And, standing there stark naked, told us that it was our turn. She’d stripped naked, and so now we HAD to. I really wasn’t looking at Little Pest. For one thing, my only concern was getting her to put her clothing back on, convincing her to go away, and then hopefully still getting to see Little Anathema’s nude body. And for another thing . . . Little Anathema was a year or so younger than me. But Little Pest was a couple of years younger than her. A naked Little Pest didn’t hold any interest for me whatsoever.
Both Little Anathema and I tried to convince Little Pest to get dressed again. We told her that we weren’t going to take our clothes off. And so, finally convinced that we really weren’t going to let her play I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours with us . . . she ran, stark naked into the house, crying, “Mom! Zeitgeist and Anathema—” (or whatever) “—won’t let me play with them!”
Yeah, that really didn’t turn out at all like I’d hoped. We were bright kids, so by time their Mom came out of the house, we were in the backyard, in plain sight, quietly playing as innocently as could be. (Such good little children. From a certain angle, I’m almost sure that you could see our halos.)
I was told to go home. And it was quite a while before I was allowed to come back. When I did, I was informed by Little Anathema that she’d been instructed to stay in full view of the house at all times when I was over, or punishment would ensue. No further opportunity for I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours would present itself.
Several months afterwards, they moved to the other end of town. Which, being a little kid around whom the world revolved, I just knew was a reaction to our attempts at playing I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours. (Actually, knowing their parents, I still think that the incident was a contributing factor in their decision to relocate.)
Yeah, I’ve seen naked females since then. (Porn has been good to me in that regard.) I’ve even seen some naked females in person a few times. I saw Dot(not her real name)’s tits and pussy. I got to see CJ (not her real name) fully naked on a number of occasions. (Actually, CJ and I have seen each other naked on a number of occasions.) And there have been a number of naked (or mostly naked) people at last year’s KinkFest, the Asylum Dungeon’s Halloween party, and a couple of Darklady parties.
But none of that has ever been the shy, curious, bargaining of nudity-for-nudity. The willingness to show mine in exchange for seeing hers. The innocent visual exploration of form, so normally hidden to prying eyes. And I want that. Age play could give me that.
Find a full grown woman who’s into age play (with a sexual connotation), and I could live out some of those early fantasies.
(Plus, Little Anathema was probably 9 or 10 at the time of the incident. Most likely flat, hairless, and poorly defined. Playing I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours now would be a much better show. Of course . . . back when I was still 10 or 11, I wasn’t yet the poster boy for obesity. Nor was I self-conscious about the size of my cock. I guess that everything’s got it’s pros and cons.)
The 10 – 12 year old persona would also let me tap into other fantasies – allowing me to act on my discontent over the fact that some of the guys in my fifth grade class were having sex, when I wasn’t. And fulfilling all manner of paper route sex fantasies.
Seventeen (Picking Up Where I Left Off)
This is the key, right here. The seventeen year old. This is why the original title of the age play post (back before I was convinced it would be a whole series of posts) was “I AM Age Play”.
If you’re a faithful reader of Time Delay, then you’ve heard this all before. But consider it in terms of age play. It is now early 2009. I was born in late 1970. Doing the math, that puts me at 38 years old.
However . . .
When I was 17 years old, I got sick. Really sick. Debilitating illness. It took five years to get a diagnosis (Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome). And since then, I’ve had any number of other woeful notations settle into my already ‘interesting’ medical files.
So: 17 years old. Chronically ill. I drop out of high school and pretty much live like a shut-in for the next 20 years. A few of my friends from high school still come around to visit and hang out. Johnny Dirtnap (not his real name), until he puts that bullet in his brain in 1995. Casper (not his real name) until he disappears into his own life in about 2000.
And, yeah, the insanity that was Dot’s entry into and exit from my life took place during the illness. As did my association with CJ. But aside from those few friends (for as long as they stuck with me) and family members, it’s been just me. Isolated. Little if no social development from the age of 17.
There’s this whole ‘clever’ birthday card philosophy that you aren’t 50 years old, you’re just 29 (with 21 years experience). Or that you’re turning 39 for the 11th time in a row. (My dad claims to be a multiple 39 year old, and thinks it’s the funniest joke in the world. But then Dad’s got a few screws loose, so . . . ) But I think I’ve got a semi-legitimate claim to being a 17 year old. When I was 17, someone pushed the ‘pause’ button on my life. I’ve had 20+ years of static since then. I’m a 38 year old 17 year old. Yikes.
And now we come to the sex-based part of this age play persona . . .
When I was 17, there were two basic types of women I was attracted to. Girls my own age (a range of about 16 to 20), and older women (figuring about mid-30s here).
The bad thing is that these are still the age ranges of women I’m really attracted to. And what’s even worse, is that that’s how my mind still thinks of them. I see a really sexy profile picture on FetLife, then check her age and discover that she’s 34, and the first thing I think is, “Ooh – an older woman . . . hot!” It takes me a few moments to realize that this ‘older woman’ is actually four years younger than me (which usually sets me off on a few minutes of internal “Oh, my God, the last 20 years of my life have been wasted!” depression).
The problems with me being a biologically 38-year old (chronically ill and obese) man with an eye for the 17 year old female has it’s own problems that are obvious. Even just ignoring the legal question, it’s perceived as just plain creepy.
Anyway . . .
The next subheading is “Thirty-Eight (Rolling)”, and as I sit here writing about my potential age play personas, to a large extent (not counting for the moment the previously discussed 10-12 year old) it’s really the 38 year old that is the persona. The 17 year old? That might actually be the real me.
Thirty-Eight (Rolling)
The adult. Given how often the concept of little/little interaction is ignored during any informal age play census, it’s the adult (or “big”) that is usually considered to be the other half of the age play equation.
The teacher. The coach. Scout leader. Babysitter. Parent. Other adult family member. Parent of your best friend. Or any of a number of other options.
Right now, I’m the thirty-eight year old. Last year I would have played the thirty-seven year old, had a chance for this sort of age play come my way. Next year, it will be thirty-nine. And so forth. It’s a rolling age. Probably easier just to label it ‘adult’, but since I put an age or age range on the previous two, I thought I should follow suit here as well.
And, yes . . . I do have sexual age play fantasies that cast me in the role of the big.
The incestuous Daddy/daughter relationship, for one. Which is something that I’d probably have to approach as an abstract concept to get around the hardwired rules against child abuse in my brain. But that grown woman . . . in schoolgirl plaid, clutching a teddybear, and presenting a child-like demeanor and calling me ‘Daddy’ . . . yeah, that’s got some definite potential there.
I’m always fantasizing about having a relationship. The girlfriend, later wife. That’s a common one. Fantasies of having a collared submissive, or a slave – those are some of the better ones. But I also tend to wonder about what it would be like to have a ‘little girl’. To be the daddy in someone’s age play relationship.
I could take on the 10 – 12 year old age play persona and do a lot with it. But when I think about doing kinky age play sex as a little, whether it’s with other youngsters, with an abstract Mommy, or with another big, it’s just a series of scenarios. A bunch of little scenes.
If I were to ever be in a 24/7 age play relationship (or even something approaching that) I don’t think it could be me as a little with an ‘older’ Mommy. The school kid era is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t wanna live there.
No, if I was ever in an ongoing, long-term big/little age play situation, I’d have to be the big. It would be the adult me and an age play ‘girl’.
Okay. One more to go, and then we’re out of the age play series and back to the usual miscellany.
Part Five
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