Monday, January 19, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
This Should Be Many Smaller Posts III
Another batch of smaller post-lets all stuck together like LEGO blocks into a single standard-sized post. Whee!
I spent a fair amount of time in late December just sitting at home. Unable to go anywhere due to weather conditions. For which I just sat there cursing the snow. And having flashbacks to earlier snowstorms.
There were a few years where I’d curse snowstorms. Oh, not weather patterns that would drop snow on my town (as those rarely ever happened). But the un-drivable-upon snow (and ice) that would accumulate on the hour (or so) drive between my town . . . and where CJ lived.
The first and third winter of our association, CJ and I would make plans for her to come over so we could fool around and such. Once these plans were made and schedules were arranged and everything, the sky would open up and evil little snowflake paratroopers would descend from above, their mission parameters being simply to wreak havoc with my (hee! hee! hee!) sex life.
Dirty little trysts ended up being postponed. Rescheduled. Canceled altogether.
The most annoying aspect of this? She’d oftentimes call and inform me that the roads were too treacherous to risk travel, what with all the snow and ice. I’d tell her I understood, and that I wanted her safe at home more than I wanted to risk her ending up in a ditch (or worse). We’d commiserate for awhile, then hang up. I would then go outside and stand in the middle of my street, which was completely dry. No snow, no ice. Nothing. Half the time the sun would be peeking out from behind a cloud. Oh, the weathermen confirmed the fact that everywhere else was a frozen slip-n-slide. But the streets of my town were as safe as they could be to drive around on. Just not safe to drive to.
She couldn’t come see me because of ice and snow – that wasn’t even here at her destination. It was like fate was sticking it’s tongue out at me.
I started to associate reports of snow with my continued not-gettin’-any. If my virginity ever manifests as an independent sentient form, it’ll be a snowman or something.
Anyway, that whole thing was on my mind in late December, because the snow kept me from posting on my blog, and since my blog is basically about me not-gettin’-any . . . it kind of all fit together for me like a loosely packed snowball.
These weren’t ‘Nam quality flashbacks or anything. But the snow-based hazardous roads just made me feel like I was missing an opportunity to grope and finger someone.
Shortly after I turned 23, Johnny Dirtnap told me that I was too old to still be a virgin.
I happened to agree with his assessment wholeheartedly, but I think my actual response was just something like, “So?”
He went on to tell me that I needed to put some effort into going out and getting laid.
Because while 23 – and even 24 – were ‘too old’ to still be a virgin, I simply couldn’t turn 25 without having ‘busted my cherry’.
I thought it was a kind of odd proclamation to make, but it was Johnny Dirtnap, so I just kind of ignored it. Until he brought the subject up again a few days later. “Okay,” he started one night. “You don’t ever get out. You don’t really know any girls (that aren’t crazy). You have no real prospects for sex. So here’s what’s going to happen . . . I’m going to allow for the unexpected to happen on it’s own between now and your 25th birthday, but the day you turn 25, if you haven’t had sex yet, I’m getting you a prostitute.”
Hmm. Johnny Dirtnap had – according to claim – experienced a grand total of ONE sexual encounter that wasn’t just him and a cheap hooker making his car rock back and forth. I had no intention of losing my virginity to a cheap hooker in the back of Johnny Dirtnap’s car. And I told him so.
So he puts on his best shocked and hurt expression, like I’ve offended him. Then tells me that he wouldn’t dream of having me lose my virginity in his car to a cheap hooker he picked up on a street corner somewhere. (Neither of us mentioned the fact that we both knew that was exactly how he’d lost his.) No, his plan was for a moderately priced prostitute in a cheap hotel room.
Still, methinks ‘no’. Do I want to have sex? Yes. Do I want to start my sex life with a working girl? No.
Over the next few months, he’d periodically mention that he was getting me a prostitute for my 25th birthday if I hadn’t lost my virginity by then. But he also started talking about fantasies more than usual. Sharing some of his with me. (Often a disturbing experience.) Prompting me to share some of mine with him.
Keep in mind, I saw Johnny Dirtnap all the time. And we talked about all sorts of crazy stuff. So delving deeper into sexual fantasies didn’t trigger any alarm bells in my head.
A month or so before my 24th birthday, he mentions that we’ve got just a little over a year to go until the big event. At this point, it’s becoming obvious to me that he’s actually hoping I don’t manage to find a sexual partner on my own before my 25th birthday. Again, I tell him no. No, he’s not renting me a girl for my birthday. And if he does, I’m not having sex with her. Because I’m not going to lose my virginity to a prostitute.
Then he asks me: “Why?” So, I give him reasons, all of which I know that he already knows. The desire for there to be an emotional connection as well as a physical one. The whole raised-Catholic thing still firmly being in place. Other reasons.
Then he gives me the counter-argument that he’s worked up. “Not all prostitutes are blonde, you know. They make redheaded ones. They even make them with cute toes. And they’ll dress up to suit their client’s needs . . . I wonder if that would include putting on clown make-up?”
All this time he’d been saying prostitute, I’d been thinking ‘hooker’. Never once had I stopped to think ‘potential fantasy girl’. A few days of thinking of a hot little barefoot redhead in clownface, and he’d got me. Dirty motherfucker had me.
Of course, I didn’t ever say, “Yes”. But I quit saying no. He’d mention the prostitute, and I’d give him a semi-exasperated look (for show) . . . but no actual refusal. And he’d give me this knowing smile.
Of course, a month after my 24th birthday (a month to the day), they found Johnny Dirtnap on the floor of his apartment with his gun in his mouth, an extra hole in his head, and his brain scattered all over the place.
Nobody got me a prostitute for my 25th birthday.
A week from today is the anniversary of them finding his body. (Possibly the anniversary of his death, depending on whether he pulled the trigger before or after midnight.) That’s part of why I felt the urge to tell this little story now.
The other reason was . . . well, at this point, it’s entirely possible that by time we’re nearing the end of the year, I may just break down, scrape together all my money, and rent myself a prostitute for my birthday as a means of losing my virginity. I’m going to say that I don’t think that it will happen. But it keeps popping into my mind as a viable possibility. So I don’t know.
I wanted this story firmly in place as a prologue in case I end up going down that road.
I’m not sure, but I think that Elvis Presley wants me to get a wooden sliver in my penis.
I walked into a room where the Elvis song “Jailhouse Rock” was playing the other day (a song I generally encounter far more often while watching the movie “The Blues Brothers” than I ever hear being belted out by the King, by the way), and once again thought to myself, “. . . but I don’t want a sliver in my dick!”
The lyric in question –
The sad sack was a sittin’ on a block of stone
Way over in the corner weepin’ all alone.
The warden said, hey, buddy, don’t you be no square.
If you can’t find a partner use a wooden chair.
Now, see, as you’re all aware, the whole point of this little blogging effort of mine is that I’m sitting in the corner all alone, crying over the fact that I can’t find a partner. 38 year old virgin, unable to find someone to ‘make him a man’. And just what is the King’s sage advice to me regarding this?
“If you can’t find a partner use a wooden chair.”
Uh, thanks, E. I appreciate the advice and everything, but I think I’m going to look for a flesh and blood woman (or even a man – heck, even a sheep) for a little while longer before moving on to wooden furniture. Bodily fluids are one thing. I don’t see a condom stopping a determined sharp and pointed fragment of wood from going where it wants to.
I had already decided that I wanted to get a post office box. I was just waiting until the first of the year rolled around.
I figured that I’d either use the remainder of whatever cash money I was given for Christmas, or take some out of the January check (or a little from Column A, and a little from Column B). I wanted the payment to go in after the first so that if it was still a year-long rental period, I wasn’t forced to come up with money at the ass-end of December, post-Christmas shopping to renew my box rental at the end of the year.
There are a variety of reasons why I want to get a post office box again. I won’t bore you with them right now, as I plan to bore you with them later on once I’ve actually secured said box. But when I returned from my forced winter storm/closed library ‘vacation’, I discovered a reply on my “December 23 – Happy Birthday to Me” post from a reader who said that she’d send me a birthday present . . . if only she knew where to send it.
[That. That right there is a good excuse to have a post office box. So that Camelia of Argentina can send me birthday presents.]
Anyway, having had a post office box before, I didn’t think that it would be much of a hassle to get one again. I neglected to consider the various changes made to reflect the new security conscious, post-9/11 America. Turns out, I didn’t have enough pieces of ID to suit them.
This is what is you currently need to do in order to rent a post office box –
You have to fill out a lengthy application form. You have to provide proof that you live at the address you’ve filled in on the form (Deed of Trust, Rental Agreement, Mortgage, or Insurance Policy), three pieces of ID from their list of acceptable sources (one of which must be picture ID, another of which must project a three-dimensional hologram of your head), blood and urine samples, a copy of your current DNA/personal genome work-up (which they need in Braille, for some odd reason), a 1200 word essay on your hopes, dreams and aspirations, a copy of your birth certificate, and finally, a photocopy of your obituary accompanied by Certificate of Authenticity from the Time Travel Administration.
In addition to the above you must also swear a loyalty oath to the federal government (while hooked up to a polygraph machine), complete a six-hour course on why chain letters are illegal, and then get RFID tagged. Six months box rental is just over $20. Processing fee is two live chickens and the gall bladder of a goat packed in ice. You must also provide the postmaster with a sack lunch which must include – but not be limited to – a turkey sandwich and a banana, with a toy surprise.
Okay, so, I may be exaggerating. A little. (The application form isn’t really all that lengthy.)
But seriously, folks . . . they do require more forms of ID than I actually have. I’ve got an Oregon ID card, issued through the DMV. That’s it for identification. (And just getting that last year entailed a whole lot of running around beforehand, because my parents never got a government issued birth certificate for me.)
And as for proving where I live . . . yikes! In reality, I’m currently half-living in two different houses. And of the two, my official residence is currently mired in legal nonsense, owing to the fact that it’s my grandmother’s house. Grandma died. Grandma’s will stated that Mom got the house. Mom died not real long afterwards. Mom’s will said that Dad got everything she owned. Then it was discovered that the lawyer handing Grandma’s ‘estate’(who has since gone to prison for what I understand were various illegal shenanigans in his legal practice) lost Grandma’s will before any property actually changed hands.
I can provide bills and other mail in my name that go to my official residence, but that’s apparently not good enough. It was all I needed for proof of residence back in the late 80s when I rented my first post office box, but that was long before 9/11 and the need for increased security. What the post office ideally wants is for me to go to the cemetery, dig Grandma up and have her write me up a renter’s agreement. Because, really, nobody else is qualified to serve as my landlord (or landlady) until we get ownership of the house (among the living) straightened out.
So, I’m now looking into easily obtainable sources of ID and proof of address and whatnot. I’m actually about to send in a request to the registrar of voters to change my party affiliation so that I can be issued a new voter registration, as that’s one of the easier pieces of ID to obtain on the list of acceptable forms of ID. And then I’m going to buy a standard rental agreement form and probably fill out what will end up being the weirdest looking document ever.
But eventually, I hope to come out of all this with a post office box. More to come.
When I started this blog back in August, I gave several examples of why this blog was called “Time Delay”. Since I had no internet, there was a delay between me writing a post and me getting up to the library to use their internet to post it. There would a longer delay than normal for me responding to comments my readers left on the blog. I was trying to lose my virginity at the age of (then) 37, instead of doing it 20 years earlier like a normal American, and so on. Time delays all around.
I recently discovered another time delay inherent in my blog.
I’ve been starting to pimp the blog a little, posting links to specific posts in related groups on FetLife.com. And in both discussion thread and private conversation, it’s been pointed out to me that my posts are long. Apparently, longer than those of the average blogger.
So there’s this time delay between when people start reading one of my blog entries, and when they would normally expect to be finished reading a post.
People come to the end of one of my posts, only to discover that they need to change the calendar page, and then get a shave and a haircut.
Whoops.
Sorry, new readers. (Sorry old readers, too, if that’s been a problem for the two of you. Note my hilarious self-deprecation there, would’ja?)
I’m not going to say that I’ll try to write shorter, because that would be a lie. I’m not trying to write long, as it is. These things just kinda end up their ridiculous lengths all on their own. I’m apparently just long-winded by nature.
I don’t think that I actually have a point here. It’s possible that my subconscious made me spend this time talking about how long my posts are just to boost the word count of this one. Weird.
Snowstorm Flashbacks
I spent a fair amount of time in late December just sitting at home. Unable to go anywhere due to weather conditions. For which I just sat there cursing the snow. And having flashbacks to earlier snowstorms.
There were a few years where I’d curse snowstorms. Oh, not weather patterns that would drop snow on my town (as those rarely ever happened). But the un-drivable-upon snow (and ice) that would accumulate on the hour (or so) drive between my town . . . and where CJ lived.
The first and third winter of our association, CJ and I would make plans for her to come over so we could fool around and such. Once these plans were made and schedules were arranged and everything, the sky would open up and evil little snowflake paratroopers would descend from above, their mission parameters being simply to wreak havoc with my (hee! hee! hee!) sex life.
Dirty little trysts ended up being postponed. Rescheduled. Canceled altogether.
The most annoying aspect of this? She’d oftentimes call and inform me that the roads were too treacherous to risk travel, what with all the snow and ice. I’d tell her I understood, and that I wanted her safe at home more than I wanted to risk her ending up in a ditch (or worse). We’d commiserate for awhile, then hang up. I would then go outside and stand in the middle of my street, which was completely dry. No snow, no ice. Nothing. Half the time the sun would be peeking out from behind a cloud. Oh, the weathermen confirmed the fact that everywhere else was a frozen slip-n-slide. But the streets of my town were as safe as they could be to drive around on. Just not safe to drive to.
She couldn’t come see me because of ice and snow – that wasn’t even here at her destination. It was like fate was sticking it’s tongue out at me.
I started to associate reports of snow with my continued not-gettin’-any. If my virginity ever manifests as an independent sentient form, it’ll be a snowman or something.
Anyway, that whole thing was on my mind in late December, because the snow kept me from posting on my blog, and since my blog is basically about me not-gettin’-any . . . it kind of all fit together for me like a loosely packed snowball.
These weren’t ‘Nam quality flashbacks or anything. But the snow-based hazardous roads just made me feel like I was missing an opportunity to grope and finger someone.
Johnny Dirtnap and My 25th Birthday Present
Shortly after I turned 23, Johnny Dirtnap told me that I was too old to still be a virgin.
I happened to agree with his assessment wholeheartedly, but I think my actual response was just something like, “So?”
He went on to tell me that I needed to put some effort into going out and getting laid.
Because while 23 – and even 24 – were ‘too old’ to still be a virgin, I simply couldn’t turn 25 without having ‘busted my cherry’.
I thought it was a kind of odd proclamation to make, but it was Johnny Dirtnap, so I just kind of ignored it. Until he brought the subject up again a few days later. “Okay,” he started one night. “You don’t ever get out. You don’t really know any girls (that aren’t crazy). You have no real prospects for sex. So here’s what’s going to happen . . . I’m going to allow for the unexpected to happen on it’s own between now and your 25th birthday, but the day you turn 25, if you haven’t had sex yet, I’m getting you a prostitute.”
Hmm. Johnny Dirtnap had – according to claim – experienced a grand total of ONE sexual encounter that wasn’t just him and a cheap hooker making his car rock back and forth. I had no intention of losing my virginity to a cheap hooker in the back of Johnny Dirtnap’s car. And I told him so.
So he puts on his best shocked and hurt expression, like I’ve offended him. Then tells me that he wouldn’t dream of having me lose my virginity in his car to a cheap hooker he picked up on a street corner somewhere. (Neither of us mentioned the fact that we both knew that was exactly how he’d lost his.) No, his plan was for a moderately priced prostitute in a cheap hotel room.
Still, methinks ‘no’. Do I want to have sex? Yes. Do I want to start my sex life with a working girl? No.
Over the next few months, he’d periodically mention that he was getting me a prostitute for my 25th birthday if I hadn’t lost my virginity by then. But he also started talking about fantasies more than usual. Sharing some of his with me. (Often a disturbing experience.) Prompting me to share some of mine with him.
Keep in mind, I saw Johnny Dirtnap all the time. And we talked about all sorts of crazy stuff. So delving deeper into sexual fantasies didn’t trigger any alarm bells in my head.
A month or so before my 24th birthday, he mentions that we’ve got just a little over a year to go until the big event. At this point, it’s becoming obvious to me that he’s actually hoping I don’t manage to find a sexual partner on my own before my 25th birthday. Again, I tell him no. No, he’s not renting me a girl for my birthday. And if he does, I’m not having sex with her. Because I’m not going to lose my virginity to a prostitute.
Then he asks me: “Why?” So, I give him reasons, all of which I know that he already knows. The desire for there to be an emotional connection as well as a physical one. The whole raised-Catholic thing still firmly being in place. Other reasons.
Then he gives me the counter-argument that he’s worked up. “Not all prostitutes are blonde, you know. They make redheaded ones. They even make them with cute toes. And they’ll dress up to suit their client’s needs . . . I wonder if that would include putting on clown make-up?”
All this time he’d been saying prostitute, I’d been thinking ‘hooker’. Never once had I stopped to think ‘potential fantasy girl’. A few days of thinking of a hot little barefoot redhead in clownface, and he’d got me. Dirty motherfucker had me.
Of course, I didn’t ever say, “Yes”. But I quit saying no. He’d mention the prostitute, and I’d give him a semi-exasperated look (for show) . . . but no actual refusal. And he’d give me this knowing smile.
Of course, a month after my 24th birthday (a month to the day), they found Johnny Dirtnap on the floor of his apartment with his gun in his mouth, an extra hole in his head, and his brain scattered all over the place.
Nobody got me a prostitute for my 25th birthday.
A week from today is the anniversary of them finding his body. (Possibly the anniversary of his death, depending on whether he pulled the trigger before or after midnight.) That’s part of why I felt the urge to tell this little story now.
The other reason was . . . well, at this point, it’s entirely possible that by time we’re nearing the end of the year, I may just break down, scrape together all my money, and rent myself a prostitute for my birthday as a means of losing my virginity. I’m going to say that I don’t think that it will happen. But it keeps popping into my mind as a viable possibility. So I don’t know.
I wanted this story firmly in place as a prologue in case I end up going down that road.
Bad Advice From Elvis
I’m not sure, but I think that Elvis Presley wants me to get a wooden sliver in my penis.
I walked into a room where the Elvis song “Jailhouse Rock” was playing the other day (a song I generally encounter far more often while watching the movie “The Blues Brothers” than I ever hear being belted out by the King, by the way), and once again thought to myself, “. . . but I don’t want a sliver in my dick!”
The lyric in question –
The sad sack was a sittin’ on a block of stone
Way over in the corner weepin’ all alone.
The warden said, hey, buddy, don’t you be no square.
If you can’t find a partner use a wooden chair.
Now, see, as you’re all aware, the whole point of this little blogging effort of mine is that I’m sitting in the corner all alone, crying over the fact that I can’t find a partner. 38 year old virgin, unable to find someone to ‘make him a man’. And just what is the King’s sage advice to me regarding this?
“If you can’t find a partner use a wooden chair.”
Uh, thanks, E. I appreciate the advice and everything, but I think I’m going to look for a flesh and blood woman (or even a man – heck, even a sheep) for a little while longer before moving on to wooden furniture. Bodily fluids are one thing. I don’t see a condom stopping a determined sharp and pointed fragment of wood from going where it wants to.
The Post Office Box
I had already decided that I wanted to get a post office box. I was just waiting until the first of the year rolled around.
I figured that I’d either use the remainder of whatever cash money I was given for Christmas, or take some out of the January check (or a little from Column A, and a little from Column B). I wanted the payment to go in after the first so that if it was still a year-long rental period, I wasn’t forced to come up with money at the ass-end of December, post-Christmas shopping to renew my box rental at the end of the year.
There are a variety of reasons why I want to get a post office box again. I won’t bore you with them right now, as I plan to bore you with them later on once I’ve actually secured said box. But when I returned from my forced winter storm/closed library ‘vacation’, I discovered a reply on my “December 23 – Happy Birthday to Me” post from a reader who said that she’d send me a birthday present . . . if only she knew where to send it.
[That. That right there is a good excuse to have a post office box. So that Camelia of Argentina can send me birthday presents.]
Anyway, having had a post office box before, I didn’t think that it would be much of a hassle to get one again. I neglected to consider the various changes made to reflect the new security conscious, post-9/11 America. Turns out, I didn’t have enough pieces of ID to suit them.
This is what is you currently need to do in order to rent a post office box –
You have to fill out a lengthy application form. You have to provide proof that you live at the address you’ve filled in on the form (Deed of Trust, Rental Agreement, Mortgage, or Insurance Policy), three pieces of ID from their list of acceptable sources (one of which must be picture ID, another of which must project a three-dimensional hologram of your head), blood and urine samples, a copy of your current DNA/personal genome work-up (which they need in Braille, for some odd reason), a 1200 word essay on your hopes, dreams and aspirations, a copy of your birth certificate, and finally, a photocopy of your obituary accompanied by Certificate of Authenticity from the Time Travel Administration.
In addition to the above you must also swear a loyalty oath to the federal government (while hooked up to a polygraph machine), complete a six-hour course on why chain letters are illegal, and then get RFID tagged. Six months box rental is just over $20. Processing fee is two live chickens and the gall bladder of a goat packed in ice. You must also provide the postmaster with a sack lunch which must include – but not be limited to – a turkey sandwich and a banana, with a toy surprise.
Okay, so, I may be exaggerating. A little. (The application form isn’t really all that lengthy.)
But seriously, folks . . . they do require more forms of ID than I actually have. I’ve got an Oregon ID card, issued through the DMV. That’s it for identification. (And just getting that last year entailed a whole lot of running around beforehand, because my parents never got a government issued birth certificate for me.)
And as for proving where I live . . . yikes! In reality, I’m currently half-living in two different houses. And of the two, my official residence is currently mired in legal nonsense, owing to the fact that it’s my grandmother’s house. Grandma died. Grandma’s will stated that Mom got the house. Mom died not real long afterwards. Mom’s will said that Dad got everything she owned. Then it was discovered that the lawyer handing Grandma’s ‘estate’(who has since gone to prison for what I understand were various illegal shenanigans in his legal practice) lost Grandma’s will before any property actually changed hands.
I can provide bills and other mail in my name that go to my official residence, but that’s apparently not good enough. It was all I needed for proof of residence back in the late 80s when I rented my first post office box, but that was long before 9/11 and the need for increased security. What the post office ideally wants is for me to go to the cemetery, dig Grandma up and have her write me up a renter’s agreement. Because, really, nobody else is qualified to serve as my landlord (or landlady) until we get ownership of the house (among the living) straightened out.
So, I’m now looking into easily obtainable sources of ID and proof of address and whatnot. I’m actually about to send in a request to the registrar of voters to change my party affiliation so that I can be issued a new voter registration, as that’s one of the easier pieces of ID to obtain on the list of acceptable forms of ID. And then I’m going to buy a standard rental agreement form and probably fill out what will end up being the weirdest looking document ever.
But eventually, I hope to come out of all this with a post office box. More to come.
Yet Another Form of Time Delay: The Long Read
When I started this blog back in August, I gave several examples of why this blog was called “Time Delay”. Since I had no internet, there was a delay between me writing a post and me getting up to the library to use their internet to post it. There would a longer delay than normal for me responding to comments my readers left on the blog. I was trying to lose my virginity at the age of (then) 37, instead of doing it 20 years earlier like a normal American, and so on. Time delays all around.
I recently discovered another time delay inherent in my blog.
I’ve been starting to pimp the blog a little, posting links to specific posts in related groups on FetLife.com. And in both discussion thread and private conversation, it’s been pointed out to me that my posts are long. Apparently, longer than those of the average blogger.
So there’s this time delay between when people start reading one of my blog entries, and when they would normally expect to be finished reading a post.
People come to the end of one of my posts, only to discover that they need to change the calendar page, and then get a shave and a haircut.
Whoops.
Sorry, new readers. (Sorry old readers, too, if that’s been a problem for the two of you. Note my hilarious self-deprecation there, would’ja?)
I’m not going to say that I’ll try to write shorter, because that would be a lie. I’m not trying to write long, as it is. These things just kinda end up their ridiculous lengths all on their own. I’m apparently just long-winded by nature.
I don’t think that I actually have a point here. It’s possible that my subconscious made me spend this time talking about how long my posts are just to boost the word count of this one. Weird.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Cunnilingus Concern
Back in the “Bisexual and Monoromantic” post, I mentioned how the concept of performing oral sex on a woman used to greatly disturb me, due to having heard way too many stories about cunnilingus in which it was a disgusting and horrific experience. I also mentioned how I’ve gotten better since then, and actually went down on CJ in one of our final physical encounters.
Then I returned to the topic at hand, talking about man-on-man sex, and other things of that nature. After I’d finished writing the piece and was checking through it for obvious errors, I made the ubiquitous mental note to return to the topic of the performance of cunnilingus, as it felt like a topic that needed more than just a partial mention within a paragraph in a post devoted to something else entirely.
Which brings us to this post here.
While sitting there reading letters that people had written to Penthouse magazine, I wanted to eat pussy. Of course I wanted to eat pussy. All these guys who wrote in loved doing it. If they loved it, chances are, I was going to love it.
Every now and then I’d read about a guy that “stuck [his] tongue between her sugar walls, deep into her pussy”. Sugar walls? Pussy tastes sweet? Good to know. I like sweet things. Once I found that willing woman, this was gonna be great!
Plus, the women . . . the women talked about in these letters seemed to love having it done to them. The women who wrote letters definitely loved having it done to them. The lesbians who wrote in not only loved having it done, they loved doing it. Both men and women loved eating pussy? Everybody loved to eat pussy! Damn, did it ever sound like I was missing out on something.
I wanted to put my head between a girl’s bare legs and fuck her with my tongue. I wanted to lick and suck on her clit while I finger-fucked her. I wanted to make her scream like a banshee.
And, yes, I also wanted her to suck my cock and let me fuck her. I wanted to buttfuck her. I wanted to do pretty much everything that was considered standard in letters to Penthouse. Because that was what ‘sex’ was. And I wanted sex.
A lot of the guys I went to school with had older brothers. Some of whom talked about their sexual activities to little bro once they started getting some action. Little bro then passed information on to his friends at school.
And pussy, apparently, was gross. It was fine to put your dick in. It was okay to put your fingers in. But you didn’t want to get your nose anywhere near it. And heaven forbid you should touch it with your tongue.
Pussy – so the playground reports went – stank. It smelled like tuna fish. The sage advice about oral sex passed down from older brother to younger brother to friend from school was this: Get a girlfriend. Get her to suck your dick. If she wouldn’t suck your dick unless you ate her pussy, then get a new girlfriend.
I wasn’t really sure that these reports were to be believed. I mean, they contradicted what was said in letters to Penthouse, and – sexually speaking – letters to Penthouse was the bible. But then I started to notice that some of the funny little cartoons in Penthouse would make jokes based on the ‘tuna’ thing. So maybe that part, at least, was true. Which didn’t bode well, for reasons I’ll get to later on.
Once I got into high school, there was this guy called Lowheel (not his real name) who spent a weekend going down on his girlfriend . . . during her period. He returned to school and proceeded to regale us all with tales of eating bloody pussy. Over the course of the week the story progressed from simply licking blood to ending up with tiny chunks of meat in his teeth. The next week he stopped telling the graphic stories about what he’d done, instead choosing to talk about how he couldn’t wait for her next period. Because while eating her pussy under normal circumstances was okay, it was nothing like getting to eat her out and taste blood at the same time. And so on. He was like this for months. There were people ready to beat the crap out of him because he just wouldn’t shut up about it, and it was really incredibly disgusting.
[I know that there are people who are into menstrual play, and I mean them no disrespect whatsoever. If you guys get off on going down on menstruating women, then more power to you. But I have to assume that you don’t go on at length about it – in extremely graphic detail – to people who keep telling you to shut the fuck up because you’re making them ill. And Lowheel wouldn’t talk about anything else for what seemed like forever.]
Dad knew this guy I’ll refer to as ol’ Carbuncle Carl (not his real name). Carbuncle Carl was one of a whole parade of losers that passed through the grand misfortune that was Dad’s social life in the early nineties.
One day he stopped by, only to discover that Dad was out at the moment. So, he just hung around, waiting for him to return. And to pass the time, he decided that he’d tell me some ‘true sex’ stories about him and his wife. Starting with a tale of him eating her out the night before.
The first fact I learned about the wife of Carbuncle Carl that day was that her pussy stank. Stank so much that he couldn’t get near it under normal conditions. So, – as his story went – he did what he always did when she wanted to get eaten out. He poured ketchup in her to cut the smell. Then he licked and sucked on her, and ate the ketchup out of her.
(On a different occasion, he was talking about how frustrating it was that his wife kept getting yeast infections. Carbuncle Carl was absolute moron.)
My friend Emerson (not his real name) once told me a story about a friend of his whose girlfriend was particularly ripe between the legs. They got drunk at a party once, and she persuaded him to eat her out. So he pulled her panties off, stuck his head underneath her skirt, and put his tongue in her. Then the smell and taste hit him. Which caused him to vomit into her. At which point he rolled off of her, pretending to just be passed out drunk, leaving her sitting there with a pussy full of puke.
These stories? This was the input on cunnilingus that I was getting. This was the information that people were filling my head with, long before I ever had an actual naked flesh and blood vagina in front of me. These stories – and the people telling them – were poisoning my brain.
I’m a picky eater. Possibly the pickiest eater in the history of picky eaters. Listen to any routine the late great George Carlin did that included the term ‘fussy eater’ – yes, that’s fussy with an ‘f’ – he’s talking about me.
Actually (and here come the semantics again) I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I’m really only a moderately picky eater. But this normal version of picky eating is bolstered to insane levels by my obsessive compulsive disorder, making it effectively the pickiest eating ever.
I order my cheeseburgers completely plain. No sauce, no condiments, no vegetables. Just the meat, the cheese, and the bun. The only thing salvageable from a salad is the crouton, and that’s only if it hasn’t touched the dressing. Gravy is the work of the devil. Scrambled eggs and omelets are fine, but non-integrated egg-whites and yolks make me gag. The universe of things that I don’t/won’t/can’t eat is so massive that – no exaggeration – it would probably easier to list the limited number of things that I will eat.
If it’s not on my brain’s ‘approved foods’ list then even just the thought of it makes me a little queasy. Being confronted with it often times makes me gag. And there are some things that do far worse than just make me simply gag. I’ve seen my dad finish making himself a sandwich and then proceed to lick the mayonnaise knife clean. This has, on more than one occasion, sent me running to the bathroom to vomit. Just by having witnessed it.
Keeping all of this in mind . . .
I can’t stand tuna fish. Tuna fish is gross. Disgusting. What’s worse is that when ever Mom made tuna fish (for herself and Dad – I refused to touch the stuff) she’d pretty much mix it with equal parts mayonnaise, which increased it’s inedibility by an infinite degree. Tuna fish is therefore inexorably linked in my brain with what is perhaps the most disgusting and vomit-inducing foodstuff in the world.
And pussy traditionally (or at least stereotypically) smells like what again? Yeah. Hmm. That’s a problem.
Allergies have robbed me of my sense of smell. But if there’s a particularly strong smell lingering around, then instead of manifesting in my nose as a smell, it will sometimes show up in the back of my throat as a flavor. (That’s how I used to experience the usually-olfactory shenanigans of the skunks that were living underneath the house for awhile.) So even if tuna-scented pussy doesn’t smell like tuna to me, it may well taste that way.
I’d been assured by people that most girls are far more hygienic than the stereotypes that produce ‘the smell’. But even so . . . even if it’s not a flavor that I’ve already encountered elsewhere and placed on the, “Oh, for the Love of God, never put this in your mouth again!” list, there was bound to be some kind of flavor. Probably some new flavor that I’d never encountered before. And as my obsessive compulsive brain always told me, “Where flavor is concerned, ‘new’ is bad.”
When CJ and I first began our physical relationship, I explained to her that if she really, really wanted me to go down on her, I’d give it a try, but that I’d heard so many horror stories about the act, that the concept of eating pussy just kind of turned me completely off. (And I’m sure that I sounded like a complete idiot while explaining this.)
She said that she didn’t mind. And I seemed to be able to make her cum with my fingertips, so I figured that everything was cool. Over the course of our on-again/off-again (and then off-again/off-again) relationship, she never asked for it. Never even really brought it up.
But I slowly started changing my opinion on putting my mouth between her legs. The – oh, what should we call it? – the ‘pussy block’ in my head was starting to crumble. I didn’t necessarily want to start going down on women. I did want to go down on CJ.
Our physical encounters were few and far between by this point, but there were several in a row where I’d determined that this would be the time that I’d go down on her. But after years of horror stories, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Each new encounter ended with her leaving, completely uneaten. I hadn’t ever discussed my oral intentions with her. Maybe deep down I knew that there was a greater than average chance that I’d chicken out.
But finally, in what turned out to be our second to last get-together, there was a point at which I got off of the bed, and slid her sideways, then got crawled up between her legs. I still hadn’t discussed this with her, so I think I took her by surprise when I spread her lips open and started licking her clit.
My oral mission was more to get her off than it was to bring her any kind of sustained pleasure, which was probably the wrong tactic to take, but hey – it was my first time, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d read bits and pieces of advice, and knew not to lick her clit like I’d been trained by Mr. Miyagi. (“Paint the fence, Daniel-san. Up, down, up, down.”)
I used my tongue to write the alphabet on her fleshy little input pad. First the alphabet, then numbers. Shapes. The letters I could remember from the Greek alphabet that weren’t already represented in the one I’d already licked onto her. Then she came, and breathily urged me to stop.
In the days and weeks that followed, I was doing some reading online about giving a woman oral, and was amazed by how many different little tasks that ‘standard’ oral sex is composed of. And how much of it I skipped over by going directly to licking the clit. I couldn’t wait for my next opportunity.
The next time she came over – the last time she would come over – I slid down between her legs, and she stopped me, telling me that I didn’t have to do that. I told her that it was okay, that I wanted to. Then she repeated herself, with a frighteningly adamant tone. “No, you don’t have to do that.” There was something about the way she said it that made me afraid that if I tried, she’d hit me.
Now I want to find someone else to go down on. The problem with that being that I still don’t really know what I’m doing. I need some trial and error type practice to develop some kind of skill and routine. But this is the era of the STD. And with my immune system being compromised due to Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome, I really don’t want to just dive in and start licking a naked and natural juicy pussy.
I’m also not sure about operating a dental dam. Everyone says that it’s easy to hold it in place while you lick a woman through it, but ‘everyone’s’ hands don’t spasm and cause them to drop and/or let go of things at inopportune moments. It would be my luck that I’d be getting really into it, my hand would twitch (letting go of the sheet of latex), and my tongue would suddenly sink into her.
At the moment, it’s something of a moot point, given that there’s no female clamoring to be my girlfriend, play partner, or even anonymous sex encounter. But I think I’m almost back to the starting point again. Back to where I want to eat pussy.
I’ll still sometimes get flashes of images my brain has put together based on the old horror stories, but I try my best to ignore them. What I focus on is this: I still want to make a woman cum – to scream like a banshee. I want to do this with my fingers and tongue. I need to make sure I do it safely, but I want to do it.
Just one more item on the long list of sexual acts that I’m desperate to experience, I guess.
Then I returned to the topic at hand, talking about man-on-man sex, and other things of that nature. After I’d finished writing the piece and was checking through it for obvious errors, I made the ubiquitous mental note to return to the topic of the performance of cunnilingus, as it felt like a topic that needed more than just a partial mention within a paragraph in a post devoted to something else entirely.
Which brings us to this post here.
Early Thoughts on Eating Pussy
While sitting there reading letters that people had written to Penthouse magazine, I wanted to eat pussy. Of course I wanted to eat pussy. All these guys who wrote in loved doing it. If they loved it, chances are, I was going to love it.
Every now and then I’d read about a guy that “stuck [his] tongue between her sugar walls, deep into her pussy”. Sugar walls? Pussy tastes sweet? Good to know. I like sweet things. Once I found that willing woman, this was gonna be great!
Plus, the women . . . the women talked about in these letters seemed to love having it done to them. The women who wrote letters definitely loved having it done to them. The lesbians who wrote in not only loved having it done, they loved doing it. Both men and women loved eating pussy? Everybody loved to eat pussy! Damn, did it ever sound like I was missing out on something.
I wanted to put my head between a girl’s bare legs and fuck her with my tongue. I wanted to lick and suck on her clit while I finger-fucked her. I wanted to make her scream like a banshee.
And, yes, I also wanted her to suck my cock and let me fuck her. I wanted to buttfuck her. I wanted to do pretty much everything that was considered standard in letters to Penthouse. Because that was what ‘sex’ was. And I wanted sex.
Horror Stories Told By Disgusting People
A lot of the guys I went to school with had older brothers. Some of whom talked about their sexual activities to little bro once they started getting some action. Little bro then passed information on to his friends at school.
And pussy, apparently, was gross. It was fine to put your dick in. It was okay to put your fingers in. But you didn’t want to get your nose anywhere near it. And heaven forbid you should touch it with your tongue.
Pussy – so the playground reports went – stank. It smelled like tuna fish. The sage advice about oral sex passed down from older brother to younger brother to friend from school was this: Get a girlfriend. Get her to suck your dick. If she wouldn’t suck your dick unless you ate her pussy, then get a new girlfriend.
I wasn’t really sure that these reports were to be believed. I mean, they contradicted what was said in letters to Penthouse, and – sexually speaking – letters to Penthouse was the bible. But then I started to notice that some of the funny little cartoons in Penthouse would make jokes based on the ‘tuna’ thing. So maybe that part, at least, was true. Which didn’t bode well, for reasons I’ll get to later on.
Once I got into high school, there was this guy called Lowheel (not his real name) who spent a weekend going down on his girlfriend . . . during her period. He returned to school and proceeded to regale us all with tales of eating bloody pussy. Over the course of the week the story progressed from simply licking blood to ending up with tiny chunks of meat in his teeth. The next week he stopped telling the graphic stories about what he’d done, instead choosing to talk about how he couldn’t wait for her next period. Because while eating her pussy under normal circumstances was okay, it was nothing like getting to eat her out and taste blood at the same time. And so on. He was like this for months. There were people ready to beat the crap out of him because he just wouldn’t shut up about it, and it was really incredibly disgusting.
[I know that there are people who are into menstrual play, and I mean them no disrespect whatsoever. If you guys get off on going down on menstruating women, then more power to you. But I have to assume that you don’t go on at length about it – in extremely graphic detail – to people who keep telling you to shut the fuck up because you’re making them ill. And Lowheel wouldn’t talk about anything else for what seemed like forever.]
Dad knew this guy I’ll refer to as ol’ Carbuncle Carl (not his real name). Carbuncle Carl was one of a whole parade of losers that passed through the grand misfortune that was Dad’s social life in the early nineties.
One day he stopped by, only to discover that Dad was out at the moment. So, he just hung around, waiting for him to return. And to pass the time, he decided that he’d tell me some ‘true sex’ stories about him and his wife. Starting with a tale of him eating her out the night before.
The first fact I learned about the wife of Carbuncle Carl that day was that her pussy stank. Stank so much that he couldn’t get near it under normal conditions. So, – as his story went – he did what he always did when she wanted to get eaten out. He poured ketchup in her to cut the smell. Then he licked and sucked on her, and ate the ketchup out of her.
(On a different occasion, he was talking about how frustrating it was that his wife kept getting yeast infections. Carbuncle Carl was absolute moron.)
My friend Emerson (not his real name) once told me a story about a friend of his whose girlfriend was particularly ripe between the legs. They got drunk at a party once, and she persuaded him to eat her out. So he pulled her panties off, stuck his head underneath her skirt, and put his tongue in her. Then the smell and taste hit him. Which caused him to vomit into her. At which point he rolled off of her, pretending to just be passed out drunk, leaving her sitting there with a pussy full of puke.
These stories? This was the input on cunnilingus that I was getting. This was the information that people were filling my head with, long before I ever had an actual naked flesh and blood vagina in front of me. These stories – and the people telling them – were poisoning my brain.
Hello, I’m Zeitgeist the Clown, and I’m a Picky Eater
I’m a picky eater. Possibly the pickiest eater in the history of picky eaters. Listen to any routine the late great George Carlin did that included the term ‘fussy eater’ – yes, that’s fussy with an ‘f’ – he’s talking about me.
Actually (and here come the semantics again) I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I’m really only a moderately picky eater. But this normal version of picky eating is bolstered to insane levels by my obsessive compulsive disorder, making it effectively the pickiest eating ever.
I order my cheeseburgers completely plain. No sauce, no condiments, no vegetables. Just the meat, the cheese, and the bun. The only thing salvageable from a salad is the crouton, and that’s only if it hasn’t touched the dressing. Gravy is the work of the devil. Scrambled eggs and omelets are fine, but non-integrated egg-whites and yolks make me gag. The universe of things that I don’t/won’t/can’t eat is so massive that – no exaggeration – it would probably easier to list the limited number of things that I will eat.
If it’s not on my brain’s ‘approved foods’ list then even just the thought of it makes me a little queasy. Being confronted with it often times makes me gag. And there are some things that do far worse than just make me simply gag. I’ve seen my dad finish making himself a sandwich and then proceed to lick the mayonnaise knife clean. This has, on more than one occasion, sent me running to the bathroom to vomit. Just by having witnessed it.
Keeping all of this in mind . . .
The Picky Eater vs. Cunnilingus
I can’t stand tuna fish. Tuna fish is gross. Disgusting. What’s worse is that when ever Mom made tuna fish (for herself and Dad – I refused to touch the stuff) she’d pretty much mix it with equal parts mayonnaise, which increased it’s inedibility by an infinite degree. Tuna fish is therefore inexorably linked in my brain with what is perhaps the most disgusting and vomit-inducing foodstuff in the world.
And pussy traditionally (or at least stereotypically) smells like what again? Yeah. Hmm. That’s a problem.
Allergies have robbed me of my sense of smell. But if there’s a particularly strong smell lingering around, then instead of manifesting in my nose as a smell, it will sometimes show up in the back of my throat as a flavor. (That’s how I used to experience the usually-olfactory shenanigans of the skunks that were living underneath the house for awhile.) So even if tuna-scented pussy doesn’t smell like tuna to me, it may well taste that way.
I’d been assured by people that most girls are far more hygienic than the stereotypes that produce ‘the smell’. But even so . . . even if it’s not a flavor that I’ve already encountered elsewhere and placed on the, “Oh, for the Love of God, never put this in your mouth again!” list, there was bound to be some kind of flavor. Probably some new flavor that I’d never encountered before. And as my obsessive compulsive brain always told me, “Where flavor is concerned, ‘new’ is bad.”
Going Down On CJ
When CJ and I first began our physical relationship, I explained to her that if she really, really wanted me to go down on her, I’d give it a try, but that I’d heard so many horror stories about the act, that the concept of eating pussy just kind of turned me completely off. (And I’m sure that I sounded like a complete idiot while explaining this.)
She said that she didn’t mind. And I seemed to be able to make her cum with my fingertips, so I figured that everything was cool. Over the course of our on-again/off-again (and then off-again/off-again) relationship, she never asked for it. Never even really brought it up.
But I slowly started changing my opinion on putting my mouth between her legs. The – oh, what should we call it? – the ‘pussy block’ in my head was starting to crumble. I didn’t necessarily want to start going down on women. I did want to go down on CJ.
Our physical encounters were few and far between by this point, but there were several in a row where I’d determined that this would be the time that I’d go down on her. But after years of horror stories, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Each new encounter ended with her leaving, completely uneaten. I hadn’t ever discussed my oral intentions with her. Maybe deep down I knew that there was a greater than average chance that I’d chicken out.
But finally, in what turned out to be our second to last get-together, there was a point at which I got off of the bed, and slid her sideways, then got crawled up between her legs. I still hadn’t discussed this with her, so I think I took her by surprise when I spread her lips open and started licking her clit.
My oral mission was more to get her off than it was to bring her any kind of sustained pleasure, which was probably the wrong tactic to take, but hey – it was my first time, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d read bits and pieces of advice, and knew not to lick her clit like I’d been trained by Mr. Miyagi. (“Paint the fence, Daniel-san. Up, down, up, down.”)
I used my tongue to write the alphabet on her fleshy little input pad. First the alphabet, then numbers. Shapes. The letters I could remember from the Greek alphabet that weren’t already represented in the one I’d already licked onto her. Then she came, and breathily urged me to stop.
In the days and weeks that followed, I was doing some reading online about giving a woman oral, and was amazed by how many different little tasks that ‘standard’ oral sex is composed of. And how much of it I skipped over by going directly to licking the clit. I couldn’t wait for my next opportunity.
The next time she came over – the last time she would come over – I slid down between her legs, and she stopped me, telling me that I didn’t have to do that. I told her that it was okay, that I wanted to. Then she repeated herself, with a frighteningly adamant tone. “No, you don’t have to do that.” There was something about the way she said it that made me afraid that if I tried, she’d hit me.
The Fucked Up Immune System vs. Cunnilingus
Now I want to find someone else to go down on. The problem with that being that I still don’t really know what I’m doing. I need some trial and error type practice to develop some kind of skill and routine. But this is the era of the STD. And with my immune system being compromised due to Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome, I really don’t want to just dive in and start licking a naked and natural juicy pussy.
I’m also not sure about operating a dental dam. Everyone says that it’s easy to hold it in place while you lick a woman through it, but ‘everyone’s’ hands don’t spasm and cause them to drop and/or let go of things at inopportune moments. It would be my luck that I’d be getting really into it, my hand would twitch (letting go of the sheet of latex), and my tongue would suddenly sink into her.
So: Will I Or Won’t I?
At the moment, it’s something of a moot point, given that there’s no female clamoring to be my girlfriend, play partner, or even anonymous sex encounter. But I think I’m almost back to the starting point again. Back to where I want to eat pussy.
I’ll still sometimes get flashes of images my brain has put together based on the old horror stories, but I try my best to ignore them. What I focus on is this: I still want to make a woman cum – to scream like a banshee. I want to do this with my fingers and tongue. I need to make sure I do it safely, but I want to do it.
Just one more item on the long list of sexual acts that I’m desperate to experience, I guess.
Monday, January 12, 2009
39 Things to Do in Year 39
Before I even begin writing anything here, I suspect that this post is going to run long. So: In the post entitled “December 23rd – Happy Birthday To Me” I talked about doing an Uberlist. Only instead of 109 Things to Do in 2009, and running from January 1st to December 31st, it would be 39 Things to Do in Year 39, and run from December 23rd to December 22nd. MY year, not the calendar’s. [I had originally talked about Uberlists way back in an entry entitled “The Top Ten List”.]
Anyway, enough prelude. On with the actual list. This is what I, Zeitgeist the Clown, Kink-Persona and Internet Phenomenon (?) plan to do this year.
This one’s a no-brainer. Probably needs no discussion at all. (And yet, here I am, discussing it anyway.) I want to finally fuck a woman. My penis is tired of the inside of my hand. It cries, “Is this all there is?”
Seriously, though . . . I’m 38 years old, and I’ve never had sex. According to popular culture, that makes me a loser beyond description. Yes, popular culture tends to cater to idiots. And yes, I have plenty of viable excuses for my prolonged virginity. But I really, really, really want to fuck somebody.
I’d like a friend-with-benefits. A stranger-with-benefits. A girlfriend. A one-night stand. A submissive. A friend of a friend. A slave.
I want to stop not having sex, and start having sex. And I want it to happen this year. (Actually I want it this month. Today. Yet this hour. Before I finish typing this sentence. Hmm. Didn’t happen before I finished typing that sentence.)
Then, after fucking a woman, I want to get fucked by a man. I want to stop being bi-curious. I want to become either a confirmed heterosexual, or an actual bi-sexual.
I want to lose my anal virginity. Then, if I didn’t absolutely hate it, I’m going to want to do it again. Sitting here outside the act, I want to get fucked in the ass several times to see if there’s anything in it for me. Of course, that’s because I’ve spent time fantasizing about it. The first time might so severely not live up to the fantasy that I scrap the whole experiment, stamp HETERO on my forehead and never look back.
To be fair, I should probably apply the same criteria to sucking cock. And it wouldn’t hurt to have a male mouth bring me to orgasm at least once. And while three out of four ain’t bad, it also ain’t complete, meaning I should also find a guy who will let me buttfuck him. I don’t really care as much about the oral or performing the anal as I do receiving anal, but since this item is about bi-confirmation, it needs a complete sampling.
I’ve never had my cock sucked to orgasm. I’ve only gone down on a woman once. I’ve never had a cock in my mouth at all.
I want some oral sex. I want blowjobs. I want to develop some skills and techniques for eating pussy. I’d like to suck a cock, at least once. Most of this is a quest for experience, although from what popular culture tells me, this ‘getting a blowjob’ thing doubles as a quest for pleasure.
There’s a scene in the movie “Good Morning Vietnam” where Robin Williams’ character tells another character something to the effect of, “You are in more dire need of a blowjob than any white man in history.” Hmm. It may have been true of him, then. But it’s true of me, now.
After years and years of not even being able to have sex with a single partner, I now want(/plan?) to go out and jump into a sexual encounter with multiple partners. Yeah. (I sometimes can’t tell if I’m being optimistic or just ridiculous, but there it is.)
My definition of group sex is simply a sexual encounter between more than the usual two people. So anything from a threesome to a full-blown orgy would count. Threesome, foursome (or moresome), gangbang, fuckpile, orgy, what-have-you.
I’ve got the classic male fantasy of having sex with two girls. (And many variations thereof, the most common being a sexy BBW whose curvy form I can play with, and her skinny friend whose body will actually interlock with my obese self for actual sexual intercourse.) I’d also like to have sex with a couple: one female, one bisexual male. (If that were to happen right now, I could actually put a checkmark on the first item on this list, and make serious progress towards a checkmark on the second.)
The timeframe here is the equivalent of engage in a sex act at least once a month. But given the fact that I’ve gone for eight years without engaging in a sex act at all, I’m not sure that I could realistically guarantee being able to hit one once every thirty days or so.
Anyway, a couple of things that need definition here: To start off with (and since the desire did start out as ‘once a month’ before I came to my senses moments later), since this uberlist is for Year 39 and not 2009, the month doesn’t run from the 1st to the 30th or 31st (or 28th). Instead, it runs from the 23rd to the 22nd. (And instead of January, February, March, etc., these months have really clever names like Month #1, Month #2, Month #3, and so on.)
The next question that gets asked is: Just how am I defining a sex act for the purposes of this item? For the purposes of Uberlist item #5 a sex act is defined thusly: Any action designed to bring about orgasm in the partner of the person performing it.
So: As desperate as I am for sexual intercourse, just getting a handjob qualifies as a sex act for this one. Getting a handjob (or giving a handjob, for that matter), fingering a woman, getting blown, eating pussy, sucking cock, fucking a pussy, fucking an ass, getting my ass fucked, tit-fucking . . . anything with at least one person receiving an orgasm at the end of it.
[I figured that by now I’d’ve already had one checkmark here. I mean, if nothing else, I should have found someone willing to let me fingerfuck them at Darklady’s NYE party. But seizing partway through the event kinda slammed the lid on that opportunity for me.]
Get a handjob. Finger somebody. (Or give a handjob.) Let somebody watch me masturbate. Watch somebody masturbate. These are my basic options for number #6. Right now, I’m hoping to get this item taken care of in late May at Darklady’s annual Masturbate-a-Thon party (if I’m both able and allowed to go).
I have occasional exhibitionist tendencies (which I’ll mention later on again when I discuss item #27 on the list). Sometimes when I’m masturbating, I fantasize about having someone there to watch me cum. I think about having a female gazing on in rapt attention as I tense up, fast approaching the moment of no return. And when I finally shoot my load, she sees it happen. And hopefully, it excites her. I’d like it to excite her enough that she returns the favor, letting me watch as she gets herself off.
And then the mutual masturbation, of course . . . that’s the big one. Touch is always better than “look, but don’t touch”. I’m not even really all that concerned with getting the handjob, as long as I’m allowed to finger a wet pussy while stroking a clit to orgasm.
Yes, it’s true. I have a banana fetish. Specifically, banana-as-insertion-toy. One of my favorite things in porn is when a woman will grab a banana out of the fruit bowl and start fucking herself with it. It was a relatively rare event in the porn clips that the internet used to provide me with. But one that I’d always treasure when I’d find.
It’s an event that I’d very much like to watch a live performance of. If I could find a woman willing to strip down and masturbate with a banana right in front of me, it would make me all kinds of happy.
And even more than just watch . . . I’d like to be the one to grab the banana and slide it into a slippery wet pussy, then fuck it in and out of her.
So just why is it that I want to fuck a woman with a banana? Truthfully, I have no idea. None whatsoever. All I know is that thinking about it makes me really horny. So it’s on the list.
You know what else I’d like to see disappear up inside of a woman’s vagina? My entire right hand. Up to the wrist. Hell, past the wrist, if she can take it.
I attended a fisting workshop (of sorts) at KinkFest last year. The presenter talked about fisting for a little while, then laid down, pointed to the lube and latex gloves, and had us form a line. I was somewhere in the middle, and managed to shove my hand partway into her (by then) wide-open hole. But I couldn’t get it all the way in. I stopped when it felt like continuing would break my thumb.
That wasn’t really the fisting that I was after. Even if I had been able to get my whole hand in, that was just sticking my hand into a fleshy bucket. I want to do it right. I want to start off with a finger, and slowly and gently warm her up and stretch her open, adding another finger in when she’s ready and keeping that process up until I’ve got four fingers in and can introduce the thumb. I want to stroke her clit with the fingers of my left hand, bringing her to repeated writhing and thrashing orgasms as I completely fill her with my right.
Gloves are easy to come by. Lube is fairly inexpensive. All I’m really concerned with is finding a volunteer.
Last year I sucked on some toes at a party. This year I want to do more. Oh, I want to find another woman willing to put her bare toes in my mouth again, obviously. But there are other things I want to do with/to a woman from her ankles down.
What do I want to do, besides sucking on toes and licking bare soles? Well, there’s a lot to be said for just getting my hands on a willing female’s bare feet and just playing. Running my fingers up and down and around her soft pedal curves. Harder touches, turning into actual massage, and so forth. Her bare feet on my bare skin would be nice. I’m not looking for her to stand or walk on me, but I can’t imagine stopping her from touching my various body parts with her curious toes.
And then, of course, the footjob. I’d love to have a woman take my erection between her feet – in between lubed up soles, or gripped with her saliva-slickened toes – and jack my cock until I spurt all over her sexy little peds.
The foot fetish can be incorporated into all sorts of sex-play. It can easily be inserted into several of the things on this list. (Item numbers #11, 12, 14, and 32 especially)
Ah, the clown fetish. (THAT’s going to require a post sooner or later.) Yeah, I’ve got a thing for female clowns.
I know that there’s a big difference between finding a woman to have sex with, and finding a woman willing to accommodate an elaborate fetish that requires her to put on weird make-up and a special costume. That doesn’t keep me from listing it as a goal. (My big hope is finding a woman who already has the fetish of having sex while made up like a clown.)
I recently did a post on the whole watersports thing. But, to summarize, I want to watch a woman pee. I want to pee on a woman. I want a woman to pee on me. For more information, go back and read “Watersports – A Jar of Piss vs. What I’m Really Into”
Few things are sexier than a woman wearing nothing but words composed of marker ink. There was a woman walking around the KinkFest Saturday night play party wearing nothing but boots and the words “Slap My Tits” written above her breasts. (I did.) I’ve downloaded various pictures of women with body writing. An exhausted looking woman laying face down on a bed, the words “I just got fucked by five boys” written on her back. I’ve got pictures of women with their naughty parts labeled. “Cunt”, “Tits”, etc.
It’s kind of funny – I’m not a big fan of tattoos, but women with marker ink slogans on their naked body turn me on something fierce. And I don’t want to just watch. I want to participate. I want to write things on bare female flesh. I want to label body parts. I want to write instructions and commands. Commentaries. (Poetry.) All manner of text.
I want to have sex with someone, and then scrawl “I just let a fat man fuck me” on her belly.
Nipples were where I was the S-est (from the S&M in BDSM) with CJ. And my main implements of torture were my fingertips. I discovered that pinching her nipples could illicit all manner of interesting sounds from her.
Post-CJ, nipples are still a major point of interest with me. I want to find women into having their nipples both played with and abused . . . and see what kind of sounds I can get them to make. I want to pinch and squeeze and flick to generate varying sensations. I also want to experiment with things like nipple clamps. (Or clothespins, if nothing else.)
For the right woman, the nipples are the volume knobs. Depending on exactly what you’re doing with them, you get the soundless gasp, the low moan, or the loud cry. I guess I’m just one of those guys who likes fiddling around with the controls.
I’m hoping to beat someone at KinkFest. Or at the Asylum Dungeon if I get the opportunity to go there again before my membership expires.
But this also covers my interest in getting either a paddle or my bare hand on a naked female ass and doing that spanking thing. Big desire. Someone, somewhere needs a bare-assed spanking. And since I feel this burning need to deliver such a spanking, I’d really like to meet up with her.
“Count them out for me.”
More and more, the flogger is starting to intrigue me. As I’ve said before, I just don’t see me getting along well with a single tail whip. I fear that my hand will spasm at the wrong moment and I’ll hit the tender kidney, or take out an eye. (Possibly my own.)
But a flogger . . . a flogger just somehow seems like it could be my implement. I can see myself standing behind a barebacked masochist, flogger in hand.
I want to get a flogger. Ideally either before or at KinkFest. Then I want to find someone at the Friday night KinkFest play party to give me a crash course in it’s use. I want to beat somebody with it. Not simply to be beating somebody. But to pick up the skill. To be able to beat somebody with it.
I want a place to store and transport my BDSM toys. And my sex toys. Of course, I’m also going to need some BDSM and sex toys to store and transport.
Cuffs. Collar and leash. Washable markers. Flogger. Paddles. Dildo. Vibrator. Butt plug. Nipple clamps. And so on and so forth.
S&M is fine. B&D is good. But I think that my main interest in BDSM is for the D&S.
I want a submissive. I’d love to have a slave. There are reasons for this, and I’ll get into them in a later post – one that isn’t currently threatening to top 6500 words. (I’m not writing these items in order.)
I’d love to have a submissive of my own, but I’d be more than happy in the moment to just do a D/s scene with someone into submission. (I could also see me having fun ‘borrowing’ someone else’s sub for a session.)
I want control. And I find the idea of having that control offered up to me to be unbelievably arousing.
And while D/s is probably my main BDSM interest, B&D is what actually brought me here. I can’t tie a knot to tie my life, but that’s what God made duct tape for, right? (Cuffs, too . . . but I can’t afford those yet. Or more to the point, I can’t justify saving up for the expense given that I have no one to bind in them.)
I want to put a naked woman into bondage and then poke and prod and penetrate her. Fuck her, if she agreed to that in the scene negotiation. But definitely violate her with my fingers.
Spread eagle, taped to bedposts. Attached to spreader bars. Bound in the wrist-to-ankle hogtie, with her ass in the air, both holes exposed. These are things that make me very, very horny. These are things that I am very eager to try out on a real, live bondage partner.
My limited experiences with humiliation games (restricted to an email correspondence I had last year with a humiliation fetishist) made me want to play around with the real thing.
Verbal humiliation that’s actually verbal and not just typed into an email. Tools like shame and degradation. And you know what would optimize the situation? Having the object of said games find it incredibly humiliating to be reduced to the plaything of a great big obese man. I want an arrangement where I’m domming/topping this scene where my sub/bottom keeps thinking, “I can’t believe I’m letting this disgusting fat man do these things to me!”
There are many reasons why I don’t see myself ever bottoming, some of them medical. But I’m a firm believer in the theory that in order to top effectively you need to be able to know what your partner feels when the paddle hits. When the flogger comes down across their back.
Unfortunately, things like extra pain and getting hit with objects seem to be among the triggers that send me into seizure-land. I’ve got more than enough pain of my own on a daily basis to really even think about wanting more, but . . . I really feel like I need the experience. Just once.
So I think that I want to bottom for someone in a BDSM scene. It needs to be a supervised scene (I’d like to have Zorch there, as he not only knows the extent of my kinkiness, but also has helped deal with my medical issues for years now). Regardless of who it is that’s keeping an eye on me, they need to have a safeword too, so that they can ‘throw in the towel’ on my behalf should it become necessary. I sometimes have episodes where I have difficulty communicating. I’ll also sometimes just kinda go blank. You could probably beat me to death during one of those periods, and I might not even notice until about halfway through the funeral.
I’m not trying to kid myself about my chances of getting through a lengthy flogging session or anything without it causing a full-blown seizure. But if I can even get a taste of what it means to be the bottom in a BDSM context, I think that it would be a useful experience.
This is on my checklist of goals for the year, and I honestly don’t know what it means. It’s one of those things where ‘I’ll know it when I see it’. Basically, I want to do enough stuff – and enough of the right kind of stuff – to not be considered a newbie. (Mainly by myself.)
Again, this one is similar to “Read a Kink or BDSM Manual a Month” without actually being that. I’ve got “The Ethical Slut” sitting here waiting to be read, but after that . . . books cost money. I plan to start periodically buying a book or two after KinkFest – but until then I’m saving what little money I have FOR KinkFest. So while I do plan to read twelve books, getting my hands on a new one each month is the problem.
And as to what particular books I read? I’m dying to get my hands on a copy of Hanne Blank’s (sadly out of print) “Big Big Love – A Sourcebook on Sex for People of Size and Those Who Love Them.” I also want to finally read “Screw the Roses – Send Me the Thorns” by Phillip Miller and Molly Devon. Beyond that, I’m open to suggestion.
Any recommendations?
I’ve been on FetLife for almost five months now, and I have a grand total of six FetLife friends. Part of the problem is the fact that I’m so rarely on the site. It’s hard to really make an impact on the discussion threads so that people will know you when you’re only online a couple of times a week – especially when half of those times are just hit-and-run email checks (and/or quick blog posting sessions), and the remaining visits you have to wait until there aren’t busybodies wandering the computer area before you can go to the FetLife log-in screen with it’s great big image of people wearing only BDSM gear.
I’m going to try to find a way to get up to the library more often this year. Maybe I can get more involved in FetLife, and maybe that will get me more friend requests. Or point me towards more people who will actually accept friend requests from me. We’ll see.
I also need to make more kinky friends in real life. Which means getting out to the munches. I’ve seen (as in ‘viewed with my eyes, but not really talked to all that much’) people at events who I know go to the Salem munch. Some of whom I want to know better. (A couple of whom I would definitely like to play with, if I’m charming enough to convince them of just how good an idea that would be.)
I want to find reasonably local people to chat with about the whole BDSM thing. Maybe take a look for a mentor if I decide to go that route. Possibly scout rides. Definitely eat some nice restaurant food at the munch’s venue. (I wonder if they’ve got a French Dip sandwich on the menu?)
Maybe I can even befriend people who have FetLife accounts in the real world, and add to my friends list that way.
I’m sort of planning to attend KinkFest in March. (The concerns at this point being monetary: the membership fees and hotel room rental.)
But regardless of whether or not I end up at KinkFest, there are a few other BDSM events that I’d like to look into this year. Leatherwoods is a kinky camping event. Now, on the one hand, I’m allergic to nearly everything in nature. But on the other hand, it’s just right outside of Salem, making it the closest BDSM event to me, and so how can I pass that up?
There’s also Vendor Fair in Portland in November, which I’d like to go to, depending on ride availability. (Vendor Fair apparently includes a BDSM play party hosted by the Portland Leather Association, the fine folks who bring us KinkFest.)
It seems to me like one of the best ways to become part of the BDSM community would be to start showing up at community events. At the very least, it’s got to be a step in the right direction.
Having attended Darklady’s New Year’s Eve party, I can actually put a checkmark here. I have attended a sex party. Although I still want to work on the whole ‘several if possible’ aspect of things. Darklady’s Masturbate-a-Thon party is in May, and I’m assuming that there will be another Halloween party this year. Possibly others.
I’d also be interested in finding my way onto the guest list of other sex party events. I know that single males aren’t the most sought-after participants at swinger parties, but I’d like to see what goes on (and just what kind of erotic mischief I could get up to) at one.
Wanna see me naked? I occasionally get this exhibitionist urge. I want to show off my naked body.
I don’t think that there’s a BDSM/kink/sex event or party that I’ve been to where I haven’t seen at least one naked guy casually strolling around. And sometimes when I see one of those guys, I think to myself, “I should strip down and wander around naked, too.”
Of course, given my specific body type (overstuffed gelatinous blob), I always feel like I should get permission from everyone attending before shedding my clothing. I know that a lot of people attend BDSM events to get punished, but I don’t think they intended said punishment to include being forced to witness me running around stark naked.
Yes, there it is – the battle between Exhibitionist Tendencies and Body Esteem Issues. I sometimes want people to see me naked. I usually don’t want people looking at me at all.
I want to do everything on this list. Given the opportunities to do everything on this list, this is the one I’ll probably chicken out on. Maybe a sexy female blog reader will run into me at a party and make me a deal or a trade. She’ll let me do something to her if I spend X amount of time sans clothing. That would probably do it.
If I drove – that is to say, if I didn’t have medical problems keeping me from being issued a driver’s license (mainly the seizures and my tendency to lose consciousness), owned a vehicle, and could afford things like insurance and fuel – I’d go to a lot more of the places that I wanted to go. I’d certainly be going to munches on a regular basis. And I wouldn’t be spending the weeks prior to an event stressing over how (or even if) I was going to get there.
But, I don’t drive. So I need to find some sort of way around the stress and the I-guess-I’ll-just-stay-home-ness of my life. I need rides. I want a list of people willing to occasionally drive me from here to there and back again. I need people willing to take me with them when they go to events. (I probably also need people to lend me the use of a couch overnight in their animal hair-free home in case I can find one ride someplace, and another ride home the next day.)
The first step, obviously, is to simply find a play partner. Someone willing to let me do things to them. (I want someone to fuck. Someone to play bondage games with. Someone to spank. That could be three different partners. Could be one nicely kinky partner. I’m not picky.) The eventual goal is a regular play partner, but given that I can’t even get rid of my virginity at this point, I’m trying to be at least somewhat realistic with this year’s goals.
So what I’m striving for is a recurring play partner. Someone who will play with me that first time, and decides that it wasn’t too bad . . . and is therefore willing to play with me again. I’m not expecting a commitment, but I’d love to find someone who’d play with me on more than one occasion.
Not exactly a relationship, but a kind of stepping stone on the way toward me having relationships in the scene (or even just my sex life).
I like the concept of age play. (Hell, there are certain levels on which I AM the concept of age play.) There will be a series of posts on age play in Time Delay later on this year. (Not too much later – probably February or March.)
I’ve never done any age play, so I don’t know for certain what I like. But I suspect it will be one of those activities where I’ll be able to play either side of the fence. Do I want to be an adult with a “little girl”? [For the record, the “little girl” mentioned in the previous sentence would be an over-18 year old dressed as a youngster, role-playing a youngster – I’m not into pedophilia, nor are the majority of true age players from what I understand.] Do I want to be a “little boy” for someone else’s adult role? Do I want to be a “little boy” experimenting (playing doctor, etc.) with a “little girl”? Uhm . . . yes, yes, and yes. All that, and more. Sure, I have what I believe to be actual preferences . . . specific roles and personas that I see myself adapting as my standards. But I’d like to try a little of everything.
And I’ve recently discovered the existence of a more-or-less local (Salem-based) age play community. With a munch and everything. (Now if only I can get a ride into Salem on munch-day . . .)
Some of the standard sexual roleplay fantasies fall within the boundaries of age play. Teacher/naughty schoolgirl, paperboy/horny housewife, and child/babysitter are just a couple of examples. But there are countless roleplay fantasies whose ‘script’ calls for a full “adult” cast. Doctor/Patient, Bride/Groom, Rapist/Bride-on-Wedding-Day, Warden/Prisoner, Priest/Parishioner, Priest/Nun, Pirate/Wench, and so on and so forth. Superhero/Citizen. Superhero/Supervillain. Ghostbuster/Sex Demon. (I know, I’m a little bit of an oddball.)
I have a digital camera, and the only nude photos I’ve ever taken have been self-portraits. How wrong is that?
I feel the urge to become an amateur nude photographer. Tasteful nude photos of women. Pornographic snapshots of chicks. Pictures of sex, pictures of masturbation.
I want to take unskilled photographs of people who are unskilled at posing nude. I want to develop my photography skills accidentally, through trial and error.
I want a photo album (actually many photo albums) of my work, hidden away where only I can find them. Sure, I’d like to put some stuff up online when my models consent to it, but I also want people to be comfortable with the fact that when I say photos are being taken JUST for my private collection, they won’t be seen by millions of mouse-clickers across the world.
I also want a fetish album filled with photos of pretty bare feet.
Right now, I would honestly be surprised to discover that I had more than five regular readers. (I’d be pleasantly surprised to discover that I actually had five whole regulars.) My brain is always telling me, “Two. You only have two readers.” (Lousy brain. I’m gonna kick it into the gutter one of these days.)
Last year’s published count (and keep in mind, last year was just August and October through December) was right around 106,000 words. That’s a lot of work for just two readers. Or even five. Now, you know that I love you guys . . . but there just needs to be more of you.
I know that there are a lot of little technical things that I need to do in order to promote my blog. (I have no idea what they are, but I know that they’re out there to be done.) I’ve started using some of my limited internet time to track down the information on what I all need to do. I’m then going to prioritize which of those tasks to pounce on in which order.
But aside from the technical stuff, there’s also the creative and marketing stuff. I’ve already experimented with blog-pimping posts on FetLife (posting a link to the “Yes, Brodie, There Is An Orange Rock Dork” post in the “Kinky and Geeky” group, and another link to the “Watersports – A Jar of Piss vs. What I’m Really Into” post in the “Watersports” group).
I know that there are sites out there that either review BDSM and/or sex blogs, or simply serve as link farms for them. Unfortunately, the few that I’m aware of all trigger the library’s porn filters. [I really need to get my own internet access.]
I’d like to print up colorful fliers, buy several WWII-era propaganda bombs, and set them off at kink events. But I’m not sure if that would get me a larger readership, or just arrested.
All I know is that I need more readers. Especially female readers. Especially fairly local. And most especially, interested in doing some sexual experimentation with me.
I need to get some kind of story or stories written before my fiction gland atrophies to the point that it dries up completely, pops off from the rest of my thinking meat, and falls out my left ear. (Is it the left ear? Or the right? Which side of your thinking meat bundle is the fiction gland on, anyway?)
With over a thousand unwritten sex stories (no exaggeration: literally over one thousand) cluttering up my head, erotica seems like a good place to start.
I’ve got mainstream plans. Hopes, wishes, goals, and whatnot. I’d like to be The Famous American Novelist. But that won’t happen directly out of the twelve-year long writer’s block box. So why not do some of my skill building in dirty little porn stories? Or dirty lengthy porn novels, for that matter?
Maybe a sexy erotica-enthusiast will stumble upon my writings and stroke her clit to orgasm so often while reading my stories that she’ll fall madly in lust with me, sight-unseen. Track me down and wrest my virginity from me, then teach me things I didn’t even know I needed to learn. Heck, maybe I’ll even get a groupie willing to cum mule for me.
Condom goes on penis. Penis goes in mouth. Blowjob happens. Ejaculation ensues. Penis removed from mouth. Condom carefully removed from penis, so as to not spill any of the semen. Condom then tied shut. Giving you a condom full of cum.
A drug mule will take a condom filled with drugs (cocaine, heroin, etc.) and swallow it. Then cross a border. Then poop the drug-filled condom out on the other side of the border, having cleverly outwitted customs officials.
You’ve already figured out what a cum mule is, right? I’m not interested in having my jism smuggled into or out of the country, or even just across state lines. What I am interested in is getting a blowjob and having the woman swallow my cum. Which is a no-no in this day of rampant STDs. I’m free of sexually transmitted diseases, but why on Earth would someone at a sex party or BDSM event trust that statement? Safe sex includes a condom. Why shouldn’t safe cum-swallowing do the same?
Quoth the Pixies – “I miss your kissin’ and I miss your head / and a letter in your writin’ doesn’t mean you’re not dead / run outside in the desert heat / make your dress all wet and send it to me.”
I’ve talked about my desire to own a pair of panties before (“Halloween-Inspired Tidbits”). Panties previously owned by a woman who was brought to a state of arousal (by me) while she was wearing them. Well, this year it’s gone from a desire to an actual goal. It’s something that I’m now working toward. (And wouldn’t it be great if the woman who gave me these panties was the same woman who took my virginity? Seems like a fair exchange.)
Most events have a dress code. Fetishwear or formalwear. Fetishwear or costume. Fetishwear or a chicken suit. Fetishwear or nudity and body-paint. Sometimes it’s fetishwear for the lower admission price, or street clothes for the much, much higher cost.
Here’s the thing: I’m poor. And I weigh 450 lbs. Fetishwear isn’t cheap to begin with. It’s harder to find for big guys, and when you can find it, it’s quite expensive. Yet, it’s probably a decent investment to keep from having to pay the more expensive admission, or having to spend money to put together a costume for each event.
Sure, there are other problems besides just finding stuff that fits (both body and budget). Like the fact that a fat man will sweat just wearing cotton, let alone material like leather and latex. But there’s got to be some sort of creative solution out there. And I plan to find it.
Wow. What an incredibly vague intention. This isn’t so much a cry for vanilla sex under the sheets in a bedroom (although I’d certainly take that offer if it were made to me) as it is a desire for normal American coming-of-age (cumming-of-age?) style things that I’ve either missed out on or screwed up my first time around.
I’ve never played strip poker. Or any game that starts out with the word ‘strip’. Never played truth or dare. Never played any of the classic ‘naughty’ party games.
I’ve only been to a strip club once, and had a seizure before I saw anything other than boobs. (Fucking weird-assed strip club strobe lighting.)
Sad, but true: I not only lack BDSM cred, I seem to lack vanilla cred as well.
I love hot tubs. I’ve been in a hot tub all of three times, all at hotels. My first experience with a hot tub was at a science-fiction convention years and years ago, my other two hot tub excursions were last year at KinkFest. (Once on Friday, once on Saturday.)
Nothing erotic or kinky happened during the KinkFest hot tubbing. But at one point I was sharing the tub with a very attractive woman who was also an event attendee, and I couldn’t help but notice how badly I suddenly wanted something erotic or kinky to be happening.
I’m not necessarily looking for anything like full-on sexual intercourse right there in the public environs of a hotel hot tub. But some hands-under-the-water mutual masturbation? Yeah, I’d like that a lot. Wet and slippery groping and fondling through swimsuits if we’re alone in the water. Maybe the occasional curious fingers furtively sliding underneath wet fabric. Her bare wet toes in my mouth. Whatever. I just want to merge the wonder that is me soaking in a hot tub that is the fantasy of me being sexual with another human being.
Huh. 6747 words. Okay. Shorter post next time, I promise.
Anyway, enough prelude. On with the actual list. This is what I, Zeitgeist the Clown, Kink-Persona and Internet Phenomenon (?) plan to do this year.
#1 – Lose Virginity
This one’s a no-brainer. Probably needs no discussion at all. (And yet, here I am, discussing it anyway.) I want to finally fuck a woman. My penis is tired of the inside of my hand. It cries, “Is this all there is?”
Seriously, though . . . I’m 38 years old, and I’ve never had sex. According to popular culture, that makes me a loser beyond description. Yes, popular culture tends to cater to idiots. And yes, I have plenty of viable excuses for my prolonged virginity. But I really, really, really want to fuck somebody.
I’d like a friend-with-benefits. A stranger-with-benefits. A girlfriend. A one-night stand. A submissive. A friend of a friend. A slave.
I want to stop not having sex, and start having sex. And I want it to happen this year. (Actually I want it this month. Today. Yet this hour. Before I finish typing this sentence. Hmm. Didn’t happen before I finished typing that sentence.)
#2 – Confirm or Deny My Bi-Curiosity
Then, after fucking a woman, I want to get fucked by a man. I want to stop being bi-curious. I want to become either a confirmed heterosexual, or an actual bi-sexual.
I want to lose my anal virginity. Then, if I didn’t absolutely hate it, I’m going to want to do it again. Sitting here outside the act, I want to get fucked in the ass several times to see if there’s anything in it for me. Of course, that’s because I’ve spent time fantasizing about it. The first time might so severely not live up to the fantasy that I scrap the whole experiment, stamp HETERO on my forehead and never look back.
To be fair, I should probably apply the same criteria to sucking cock. And it wouldn’t hurt to have a male mouth bring me to orgasm at least once. And while three out of four ain’t bad, it also ain’t complete, meaning I should also find a guy who will let me buttfuck him. I don’t really care as much about the oral or performing the anal as I do receiving anal, but since this item is about bi-confirmation, it needs a complete sampling.
#3 – Perform and Receive Oral Sex
I’ve never had my cock sucked to orgasm. I’ve only gone down on a woman once. I’ve never had a cock in my mouth at all.
I want some oral sex. I want blowjobs. I want to develop some skills and techniques for eating pussy. I’d like to suck a cock, at least once. Most of this is a quest for experience, although from what popular culture tells me, this ‘getting a blowjob’ thing doubles as a quest for pleasure.
There’s a scene in the movie “Good Morning Vietnam” where Robin Williams’ character tells another character something to the effect of, “You are in more dire need of a blowjob than any white man in history.” Hmm. It may have been true of him, then. But it’s true of me, now.
#4 – Participate in a Group Sex Scene
After years and years of not even being able to have sex with a single partner, I now want(/plan?) to go out and jump into a sexual encounter with multiple partners. Yeah. (I sometimes can’t tell if I’m being optimistic or just ridiculous, but there it is.)
My definition of group sex is simply a sexual encounter between more than the usual two people. So anything from a threesome to a full-blown orgy would count. Threesome, foursome (or moresome), gangbang, fuckpile, orgy, what-have-you.
I’ve got the classic male fantasy of having sex with two girls. (And many variations thereof, the most common being a sexy BBW whose curvy form I can play with, and her skinny friend whose body will actually interlock with my obese self for actual sexual intercourse.) I’d also like to have sex with a couple: one female, one bisexual male. (If that were to happen right now, I could actually put a checkmark on the first item on this list, and make serious progress towards a checkmark on the second.)
#5 – Engage in a Sex Act on at Least 12 Separate Occasions
The timeframe here is the equivalent of engage in a sex act at least once a month. But given the fact that I’ve gone for eight years without engaging in a sex act at all, I’m not sure that I could realistically guarantee being able to hit one once every thirty days or so.
Anyway, a couple of things that need definition here: To start off with (and since the desire did start out as ‘once a month’ before I came to my senses moments later), since this uberlist is for Year 39 and not 2009, the month doesn’t run from the 1st to the 30th or 31st (or 28th). Instead, it runs from the 23rd to the 22nd. (And instead of January, February, March, etc., these months have really clever names like Month #1, Month #2, Month #3, and so on.)
The next question that gets asked is: Just how am I defining a sex act for the purposes of this item? For the purposes of Uberlist item #5 a sex act is defined thusly: Any action designed to bring about orgasm in the partner of the person performing it.
So: As desperate as I am for sexual intercourse, just getting a handjob qualifies as a sex act for this one. Getting a handjob (or giving a handjob, for that matter), fingering a woman, getting blown, eating pussy, sucking cock, fucking a pussy, fucking an ass, getting my ass fucked, tit-fucking . . . anything with at least one person receiving an orgasm at the end of it.
[I figured that by now I’d’ve already had one checkmark here. I mean, if nothing else, I should have found someone willing to let me fingerfuck them at Darklady’s NYE party. But seizing partway through the event kinda slammed the lid on that opportunity for me.]
#6 – Participate in Mutual Masturbation or Performance Masturbation
Get a handjob. Finger somebody. (Or give a handjob.) Let somebody watch me masturbate. Watch somebody masturbate. These are my basic options for number #6. Right now, I’m hoping to get this item taken care of in late May at Darklady’s annual Masturbate-a-Thon party (if I’m both able and allowed to go).
I have occasional exhibitionist tendencies (which I’ll mention later on again when I discuss item #27 on the list). Sometimes when I’m masturbating, I fantasize about having someone there to watch me cum. I think about having a female gazing on in rapt attention as I tense up, fast approaching the moment of no return. And when I finally shoot my load, she sees it happen. And hopefully, it excites her. I’d like it to excite her enough that she returns the favor, letting me watch as she gets herself off.
And then the mutual masturbation, of course . . . that’s the big one. Touch is always better than “look, but don’t touch”. I’m not even really all that concerned with getting the handjob, as long as I’m allowed to finger a wet pussy while stroking a clit to orgasm.
#7 – Penetrate a Woman With a Banana
Yes, it’s true. I have a banana fetish. Specifically, banana-as-insertion-toy. One of my favorite things in porn is when a woman will grab a banana out of the fruit bowl and start fucking herself with it. It was a relatively rare event in the porn clips that the internet used to provide me with. But one that I’d always treasure when I’d find.
It’s an event that I’d very much like to watch a live performance of. If I could find a woman willing to strip down and masturbate with a banana right in front of me, it would make me all kinds of happy.
And even more than just watch . . . I’d like to be the one to grab the banana and slide it into a slippery wet pussy, then fuck it in and out of her.
So just why is it that I want to fuck a woman with a banana? Truthfully, I have no idea. None whatsoever. All I know is that thinking about it makes me really horny. So it’s on the list.
#8 – Fist a Woman
You know what else I’d like to see disappear up inside of a woman’s vagina? My entire right hand. Up to the wrist. Hell, past the wrist, if she can take it.
I attended a fisting workshop (of sorts) at KinkFest last year. The presenter talked about fisting for a little while, then laid down, pointed to the lube and latex gloves, and had us form a line. I was somewhere in the middle, and managed to shove my hand partway into her (by then) wide-open hole. But I couldn’t get it all the way in. I stopped when it felt like continuing would break my thumb.
That wasn’t really the fisting that I was after. Even if I had been able to get my whole hand in, that was just sticking my hand into a fleshy bucket. I want to do it right. I want to start off with a finger, and slowly and gently warm her up and stretch her open, adding another finger in when she’s ready and keeping that process up until I’ve got four fingers in and can introduce the thumb. I want to stroke her clit with the fingers of my left hand, bringing her to repeated writhing and thrashing orgasms as I completely fill her with my right.
Gloves are easy to come by. Lube is fairly inexpensive. All I’m really concerned with is finding a volunteer.
#9 – Seek Out Opportunities to Indulge My Foot Fetish
Last year I sucked on some toes at a party. This year I want to do more. Oh, I want to find another woman willing to put her bare toes in my mouth again, obviously. But there are other things I want to do with/to a woman from her ankles down.
What do I want to do, besides sucking on toes and licking bare soles? Well, there’s a lot to be said for just getting my hands on a willing female’s bare feet and just playing. Running my fingers up and down and around her soft pedal curves. Harder touches, turning into actual massage, and so forth. Her bare feet on my bare skin would be nice. I’m not looking for her to stand or walk on me, but I can’t imagine stopping her from touching my various body parts with her curious toes.
And then, of course, the footjob. I’d love to have a woman take my erection between her feet – in between lubed up soles, or gripped with her saliva-slickened toes – and jack my cock until I spurt all over her sexy little peds.
The foot fetish can be incorporated into all sorts of sex-play. It can easily be inserted into several of the things on this list. (Item numbers #11, 12, 14, and 32 especially)
#10 – Have an Erotic Encounter With a Woman Who is Wearing Clown Make-Up
Ah, the clown fetish. (THAT’s going to require a post sooner or later.) Yeah, I’ve got a thing for female clowns.
I know that there’s a big difference between finding a woman to have sex with, and finding a woman willing to accommodate an elaborate fetish that requires her to put on weird make-up and a special costume. That doesn’t keep me from listing it as a goal. (My big hope is finding a woman who already has the fetish of having sex while made up like a clown.)
#11 – Participate in Watersports Activities With a Woman
I recently did a post on the whole watersports thing. But, to summarize, I want to watch a woman pee. I want to pee on a woman. I want a woman to pee on me. For more information, go back and read “Watersports – A Jar of Piss vs. What I’m Really Into”
#12 – Engage in Erotic Body Writing
Few things are sexier than a woman wearing nothing but words composed of marker ink. There was a woman walking around the KinkFest Saturday night play party wearing nothing but boots and the words “Slap My Tits” written above her breasts. (I did.) I’ve downloaded various pictures of women with body writing. An exhausted looking woman laying face down on a bed, the words “I just got fucked by five boys” written on her back. I’ve got pictures of women with their naughty parts labeled. “Cunt”, “Tits”, etc.
It’s kind of funny – I’m not a big fan of tattoos, but women with marker ink slogans on their naked body turn me on something fierce. And I don’t want to just watch. I want to participate. I want to write things on bare female flesh. I want to label body parts. I want to write instructions and commands. Commentaries. (Poetry.) All manner of text.
I want to have sex with someone, and then scrawl “I just let a fat man fuck me” on her belly.
#13 – Play With, Torment, and Torture Nipples
Nipples were where I was the S-est (from the S&M in BDSM) with CJ. And my main implements of torture were my fingertips. I discovered that pinching her nipples could illicit all manner of interesting sounds from her.
Post-CJ, nipples are still a major point of interest with me. I want to find women into having their nipples both played with and abused . . . and see what kind of sounds I can get them to make. I want to pinch and squeeze and flick to generate varying sensations. I also want to experiment with things like nipple clamps. (Or clothespins, if nothing else.)
For the right woman, the nipples are the volume knobs. Depending on exactly what you’re doing with them, you get the soundless gasp, the low moan, or the loud cry. I guess I’m just one of those guys who likes fiddling around with the controls.
#14 – Perform Some Impact Play
I’m hoping to beat someone at KinkFest. Or at the Asylum Dungeon if I get the opportunity to go there again before my membership expires.
But this also covers my interest in getting either a paddle or my bare hand on a naked female ass and doing that spanking thing. Big desire. Someone, somewhere needs a bare-assed spanking. And since I feel this burning need to deliver such a spanking, I’d really like to meet up with her.
“Count them out for me.”
#15 – Obtain a Flogger and Learn to Use It
More and more, the flogger is starting to intrigue me. As I’ve said before, I just don’t see me getting along well with a single tail whip. I fear that my hand will spasm at the wrong moment and I’ll hit the tender kidney, or take out an eye. (Possibly my own.)
But a flogger . . . a flogger just somehow seems like it could be my implement. I can see myself standing behind a barebacked masochist, flogger in hand.
I want to get a flogger. Ideally either before or at KinkFest. Then I want to find someone at the Friday night KinkFest play party to give me a crash course in it’s use. I want to beat somebody with it. Not simply to be beating somebody. But to pick up the skill. To be able to beat somebody with it.
#16 – Put Together a Toybag
I want a place to store and transport my BDSM toys. And my sex toys. Of course, I’m also going to need some BDSM and sex toys to store and transport.
Cuffs. Collar and leash. Washable markers. Flogger. Paddles. Dildo. Vibrator. Butt plug. Nipple clamps. And so on and so forth.
#17 – Dominate a Submissive
S&M is fine. B&D is good. But I think that my main interest in BDSM is for the D&S.
I want a submissive. I’d love to have a slave. There are reasons for this, and I’ll get into them in a later post – one that isn’t currently threatening to top 6500 words. (I’m not writing these items in order.)
I’d love to have a submissive of my own, but I’d be more than happy in the moment to just do a D/s scene with someone into submission. (I could also see me having fun ‘borrowing’ someone else’s sub for a session.)
I want control. And I find the idea of having that control offered up to me to be unbelievably arousing.
#18 – Do Some Bondage Play
And while D/s is probably my main BDSM interest, B&D is what actually brought me here. I can’t tie a knot to tie my life, but that’s what God made duct tape for, right? (Cuffs, too . . . but I can’t afford those yet. Or more to the point, I can’t justify saving up for the expense given that I have no one to bind in them.)
I want to put a naked woman into bondage and then poke and prod and penetrate her. Fuck her, if she agreed to that in the scene negotiation. But definitely violate her with my fingers.
Spread eagle, taped to bedposts. Attached to spreader bars. Bound in the wrist-to-ankle hogtie, with her ass in the air, both holes exposed. These are things that make me very, very horny. These are things that I am very eager to try out on a real, live bondage partner.
#19 – Dom/Top For a Humiliation Scene
My limited experiences with humiliation games (restricted to an email correspondence I had last year with a humiliation fetishist) made me want to play around with the real thing.
Verbal humiliation that’s actually verbal and not just typed into an email. Tools like shame and degradation. And you know what would optimize the situation? Having the object of said games find it incredibly humiliating to be reduced to the plaything of a great big obese man. I want an arrangement where I’m domming/topping this scene where my sub/bottom keeps thinking, “I can’t believe I’m letting this disgusting fat man do these things to me!”
#20 – Experience the Bottom’s Role In a (Heavily Supervised) BDSM Scene
There are many reasons why I don’t see myself ever bottoming, some of them medical. But I’m a firm believer in the theory that in order to top effectively you need to be able to know what your partner feels when the paddle hits. When the flogger comes down across their back.
Unfortunately, things like extra pain and getting hit with objects seem to be among the triggers that send me into seizure-land. I’ve got more than enough pain of my own on a daily basis to really even think about wanting more, but . . . I really feel like I need the experience. Just once.
So I think that I want to bottom for someone in a BDSM scene. It needs to be a supervised scene (I’d like to have Zorch there, as he not only knows the extent of my kinkiness, but also has helped deal with my medical issues for years now). Regardless of who it is that’s keeping an eye on me, they need to have a safeword too, so that they can ‘throw in the towel’ on my behalf should it become necessary. I sometimes have episodes where I have difficulty communicating. I’ll also sometimes just kinda go blank. You could probably beat me to death during one of those periods, and I might not even notice until about halfway through the funeral.
I’m not trying to kid myself about my chances of getting through a lengthy flogging session or anything without it causing a full-blown seizure. But if I can even get a taste of what it means to be the bottom in a BDSM context, I think that it would be a useful experience.
#21 – Obtain Some BDSM ‘Cred’
This is on my checklist of goals for the year, and I honestly don’t know what it means. It’s one of those things where ‘I’ll know it when I see it’. Basically, I want to do enough stuff – and enough of the right kind of stuff – to not be considered a newbie. (Mainly by myself.)
#22 – Read a Minimum of 12 Kink or BDSM Manuals
Again, this one is similar to “Read a Kink or BDSM Manual a Month” without actually being that. I’ve got “The Ethical Slut” sitting here waiting to be read, but after that . . . books cost money. I plan to start periodically buying a book or two after KinkFest – but until then I’m saving what little money I have FOR KinkFest. So while I do plan to read twelve books, getting my hands on a new one each month is the problem.
And as to what particular books I read? I’m dying to get my hands on a copy of Hanne Blank’s (sadly out of print) “Big Big Love – A Sourcebook on Sex for People of Size and Those Who Love Them.” I also want to finally read “Screw the Roses – Send Me the Thorns” by Phillip Miller and Molly Devon. Beyond that, I’m open to suggestion.
Any recommendations?
#23 – Make More Friends on Fetlife
I’ve been on FetLife for almost five months now, and I have a grand total of six FetLife friends. Part of the problem is the fact that I’m so rarely on the site. It’s hard to really make an impact on the discussion threads so that people will know you when you’re only online a couple of times a week – especially when half of those times are just hit-and-run email checks (and/or quick blog posting sessions), and the remaining visits you have to wait until there aren’t busybodies wandering the computer area before you can go to the FetLife log-in screen with it’s great big image of people wearing only BDSM gear.
I’m going to try to find a way to get up to the library more often this year. Maybe I can get more involved in FetLife, and maybe that will get me more friend requests. Or point me towards more people who will actually accept friend requests from me. We’ll see.
#24 – Start Attending Munches and Meeting People
I also need to make more kinky friends in real life. Which means getting out to the munches. I’ve seen (as in ‘viewed with my eyes, but not really talked to all that much’) people at events who I know go to the Salem munch. Some of whom I want to know better. (A couple of whom I would definitely like to play with, if I’m charming enough to convince them of just how good an idea that would be.)
I want to find reasonably local people to chat with about the whole BDSM thing. Maybe take a look for a mentor if I decide to go that route. Possibly scout rides. Definitely eat some nice restaurant food at the munch’s venue. (I wonder if they’ve got a French Dip sandwich on the menu?)
Maybe I can even befriend people who have FetLife accounts in the real world, and add to my friends list that way.
#25 – Attend An Event (Several if Possible)
I’m sort of planning to attend KinkFest in March. (The concerns at this point being monetary: the membership fees and hotel room rental.)
But regardless of whether or not I end up at KinkFest, there are a few other BDSM events that I’d like to look into this year. Leatherwoods is a kinky camping event. Now, on the one hand, I’m allergic to nearly everything in nature. But on the other hand, it’s just right outside of Salem, making it the closest BDSM event to me, and so how can I pass that up?
There’s also Vendor Fair in Portland in November, which I’d like to go to, depending on ride availability. (Vendor Fair apparently includes a BDSM play party hosted by the Portland Leather Association, the fine folks who bring us KinkFest.)
It seems to me like one of the best ways to become part of the BDSM community would be to start showing up at community events. At the very least, it’s got to be a step in the right direction.
#26 – Attend a Sex Party (Several if Possible)
Having attended Darklady’s New Year’s Eve party, I can actually put a checkmark here. I have attended a sex party. Although I still want to work on the whole ‘several if possible’ aspect of things. Darklady’s Masturbate-a-Thon party is in May, and I’m assuming that there will be another Halloween party this year. Possibly others.
I’d also be interested in finding my way onto the guest list of other sex party events. I know that single males aren’t the most sought-after participants at swinger parties, but I’d like to see what goes on (and just what kind of erotic mischief I could get up to) at one.
#27 – Spend Time at a Party or Event Nude
Wanna see me naked? I occasionally get this exhibitionist urge. I want to show off my naked body.
I don’t think that there’s a BDSM/kink/sex event or party that I’ve been to where I haven’t seen at least one naked guy casually strolling around. And sometimes when I see one of those guys, I think to myself, “I should strip down and wander around naked, too.”
Of course, given my specific body type (overstuffed gelatinous blob), I always feel like I should get permission from everyone attending before shedding my clothing. I know that a lot of people attend BDSM events to get punished, but I don’t think they intended said punishment to include being forced to witness me running around stark naked.
Yes, there it is – the battle between Exhibitionist Tendencies and Body Esteem Issues. I sometimes want people to see me naked. I usually don’t want people looking at me at all.
I want to do everything on this list. Given the opportunities to do everything on this list, this is the one I’ll probably chicken out on. Maybe a sexy female blog reader will run into me at a party and make me a deal or a trade. She’ll let me do something to her if I spend X amount of time sans clothing. That would probably do it.
#28 – Find or Build a Network of Rides To and From Events
If I drove – that is to say, if I didn’t have medical problems keeping me from being issued a driver’s license (mainly the seizures and my tendency to lose consciousness), owned a vehicle, and could afford things like insurance and fuel – I’d go to a lot more of the places that I wanted to go. I’d certainly be going to munches on a regular basis. And I wouldn’t be spending the weeks prior to an event stressing over how (or even if) I was going to get there.
But, I don’t drive. So I need to find some sort of way around the stress and the I-guess-I’ll-just-stay-home-ness of my life. I need rides. I want a list of people willing to occasionally drive me from here to there and back again. I need people willing to take me with them when they go to events. (I probably also need people to lend me the use of a couch overnight in their animal hair-free home in case I can find one ride someplace, and another ride home the next day.)
#29 – Find a Recurring Play Partner
The first step, obviously, is to simply find a play partner. Someone willing to let me do things to them. (I want someone to fuck. Someone to play bondage games with. Someone to spank. That could be three different partners. Could be one nicely kinky partner. I’m not picky.) The eventual goal is a regular play partner, but given that I can’t even get rid of my virginity at this point, I’m trying to be at least somewhat realistic with this year’s goals.
So what I’m striving for is a recurring play partner. Someone who will play with me that first time, and decides that it wasn’t too bad . . . and is therefore willing to play with me again. I’m not expecting a commitment, but I’d love to find someone who’d play with me on more than one occasion.
Not exactly a relationship, but a kind of stepping stone on the way toward me having relationships in the scene (or even just my sex life).
#30 – Participate in Some Age Play
I like the concept of age play. (Hell, there are certain levels on which I AM the concept of age play.) There will be a series of posts on age play in Time Delay later on this year. (Not too much later – probably February or March.)
I’ve never done any age play, so I don’t know for certain what I like. But I suspect it will be one of those activities where I’ll be able to play either side of the fence. Do I want to be an adult with a “little girl”? [For the record, the “little girl” mentioned in the previous sentence would be an over-18 year old dressed as a youngster, role-playing a youngster – I’m not into pedophilia, nor are the majority of true age players from what I understand.] Do I want to be a “little boy” for someone else’s adult role? Do I want to be a “little boy” experimenting (playing doctor, etc.) with a “little girl”? Uhm . . . yes, yes, and yes. All that, and more. Sure, I have what I believe to be actual preferences . . . specific roles and personas that I see myself adapting as my standards. But I’d like to try a little of everything.
And I’ve recently discovered the existence of a more-or-less local (Salem-based) age play community. With a munch and everything. (Now if only I can get a ride into Salem on munch-day . . .)
#31 – Do Some General Sexual Roleplaying
Some of the standard sexual roleplay fantasies fall within the boundaries of age play. Teacher/naughty schoolgirl, paperboy/horny housewife, and child/babysitter are just a couple of examples. But there are countless roleplay fantasies whose ‘script’ calls for a full “adult” cast. Doctor/Patient, Bride/Groom, Rapist/Bride-on-Wedding-Day, Warden/Prisoner, Priest/Parishioner, Priest/Nun, Pirate/Wench, and so on and so forth. Superhero/Citizen. Superhero/Supervillain. Ghostbuster/Sex Demon. (I know, I’m a little bit of an oddball.)
#32 – Start an Erotic/Pornographic Photo Album
I have a digital camera, and the only nude photos I’ve ever taken have been self-portraits. How wrong is that?
I feel the urge to become an amateur nude photographer. Tasteful nude photos of women. Pornographic snapshots of chicks. Pictures of sex, pictures of masturbation.
I want to take unskilled photographs of people who are unskilled at posing nude. I want to develop my photography skills accidentally, through trial and error.
I want a photo album (actually many photo albums) of my work, hidden away where only I can find them. Sure, I’d like to put some stuff up online when my models consent to it, but I also want people to be comfortable with the fact that when I say photos are being taken JUST for my private collection, they won’t be seen by millions of mouse-clickers across the world.
I also want a fetish album filled with photos of pretty bare feet.
#33 – Pimp the Blog
Right now, I would honestly be surprised to discover that I had more than five regular readers. (I’d be pleasantly surprised to discover that I actually had five whole regulars.) My brain is always telling me, “Two. You only have two readers.” (Lousy brain. I’m gonna kick it into the gutter one of these days.)
Last year’s published count (and keep in mind, last year was just August and October through December) was right around 106,000 words. That’s a lot of work for just two readers. Or even five. Now, you know that I love you guys . . . but there just needs to be more of you.
I know that there are a lot of little technical things that I need to do in order to promote my blog. (I have no idea what they are, but I know that they’re out there to be done.) I’ve started using some of my limited internet time to track down the information on what I all need to do. I’m then going to prioritize which of those tasks to pounce on in which order.
But aside from the technical stuff, there’s also the creative and marketing stuff. I’ve already experimented with blog-pimping posts on FetLife (posting a link to the “Yes, Brodie, There Is An Orange Rock Dork” post in the “Kinky and Geeky” group, and another link to the “Watersports – A Jar of Piss vs. What I’m Really Into” post in the “Watersports” group).
I know that there are sites out there that either review BDSM and/or sex blogs, or simply serve as link farms for them. Unfortunately, the few that I’m aware of all trigger the library’s porn filters. [I really need to get my own internet access.]
I’d like to print up colorful fliers, buy several WWII-era propaganda bombs, and set them off at kink events. But I’m not sure if that would get me a larger readership, or just arrested.
All I know is that I need more readers. Especially female readers. Especially fairly local. And most especially, interested in doing some sexual experimentation with me.
#34 – Write Some Erotica
I need to get some kind of story or stories written before my fiction gland atrophies to the point that it dries up completely, pops off from the rest of my thinking meat, and falls out my left ear. (Is it the left ear? Or the right? Which side of your thinking meat bundle is the fiction gland on, anyway?)
With over a thousand unwritten sex stories (no exaggeration: literally over one thousand) cluttering up my head, erotica seems like a good place to start.
I’ve got mainstream plans. Hopes, wishes, goals, and whatnot. I’d like to be The Famous American Novelist. But that won’t happen directly out of the twelve-year long writer’s block box. So why not do some of my skill building in dirty little porn stories? Or dirty lengthy porn novels, for that matter?
Maybe a sexy erotica-enthusiast will stumble upon my writings and stroke her clit to orgasm so often while reading my stories that she’ll fall madly in lust with me, sight-unseen. Track me down and wrest my virginity from me, then teach me things I didn’t even know I needed to learn. Heck, maybe I’ll even get a groupie willing to cum mule for me.
#35 – Make Somebody Cum Mule For Me
Condom goes on penis. Penis goes in mouth. Blowjob happens. Ejaculation ensues. Penis removed from mouth. Condom carefully removed from penis, so as to not spill any of the semen. Condom then tied shut. Giving you a condom full of cum.
A drug mule will take a condom filled with drugs (cocaine, heroin, etc.) and swallow it. Then cross a border. Then poop the drug-filled condom out on the other side of the border, having cleverly outwitted customs officials.
You’ve already figured out what a cum mule is, right? I’m not interested in having my jism smuggled into or out of the country, or even just across state lines. What I am interested in is getting a blowjob and having the woman swallow my cum. Which is a no-no in this day of rampant STDs. I’m free of sexually transmitted diseases, but why on Earth would someone at a sex party or BDSM event trust that statement? Safe sex includes a condom. Why shouldn’t safe cum-swallowing do the same?
#36 – Keep a Pair of Panties as a Souvenir
Quoth the Pixies – “I miss your kissin’ and I miss your head / and a letter in your writin’ doesn’t mean you’re not dead / run outside in the desert heat / make your dress all wet and send it to me.”
I’ve talked about my desire to own a pair of panties before (“Halloween-Inspired Tidbits”). Panties previously owned by a woman who was brought to a state of arousal (by me) while she was wearing them. Well, this year it’s gone from a desire to an actual goal. It’s something that I’m now working toward. (And wouldn’t it be great if the woman who gave me these panties was the same woman who took my virginity? Seems like a fair exchange.)
#37 – Obtain Some Sort of Fetishwear
Most events have a dress code. Fetishwear or formalwear. Fetishwear or costume. Fetishwear or a chicken suit. Fetishwear or nudity and body-paint. Sometimes it’s fetishwear for the lower admission price, or street clothes for the much, much higher cost.
Here’s the thing: I’m poor. And I weigh 450 lbs. Fetishwear isn’t cheap to begin with. It’s harder to find for big guys, and when you can find it, it’s quite expensive. Yet, it’s probably a decent investment to keep from having to pay the more expensive admission, or having to spend money to put together a costume for each event.
Sure, there are other problems besides just finding stuff that fits (both body and budget). Like the fact that a fat man will sweat just wearing cotton, let alone material like leather and latex. But there’s got to be some sort of creative solution out there. And I plan to find it.
#38 – Do Some Naughty ‘Stuff’ in a Non-Kink Setting
Wow. What an incredibly vague intention. This isn’t so much a cry for vanilla sex under the sheets in a bedroom (although I’d certainly take that offer if it were made to me) as it is a desire for normal American coming-of-age (cumming-of-age?) style things that I’ve either missed out on or screwed up my first time around.
I’ve never played strip poker. Or any game that starts out with the word ‘strip’. Never played truth or dare. Never played any of the classic ‘naughty’ party games.
I’ve only been to a strip club once, and had a seizure before I saw anything other than boobs. (Fucking weird-assed strip club strobe lighting.)
Sad, but true: I not only lack BDSM cred, I seem to lack vanilla cred as well.
#39 – Play in a Hot Tub
I love hot tubs. I’ve been in a hot tub all of three times, all at hotels. My first experience with a hot tub was at a science-fiction convention years and years ago, my other two hot tub excursions were last year at KinkFest. (Once on Friday, once on Saturday.)
Nothing erotic or kinky happened during the KinkFest hot tubbing. But at one point I was sharing the tub with a very attractive woman who was also an event attendee, and I couldn’t help but notice how badly I suddenly wanted something erotic or kinky to be happening.
I’m not necessarily looking for anything like full-on sexual intercourse right there in the public environs of a hotel hot tub. But some hands-under-the-water mutual masturbation? Yeah, I’d like that a lot. Wet and slippery groping and fondling through swimsuits if we’re alone in the water. Maybe the occasional curious fingers furtively sliding underneath wet fabric. Her bare wet toes in my mouth. Whatever. I just want to merge the wonder that is me soaking in a hot tub that is the fantasy of me being sexual with another human being.
Another Long Read
Huh. 6747 words. Okay. Shorter post next time, I promise.
Friday, January 9, 2009
What Zeitgeist the Clown Did in 2008
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