I'm a Toys 'R' Us Kid, Continuation

The fun in her laugh as she jumps like a youth infect me, my grin turn to laughs of my own.  I can't jump on the bed without breaking it or the ceiling, but I can wrestle her to the ground.  Pillows are sacrificed, the pawns in our epic conflict for bedroom supremacy.  My size and strength are useless, she is making me laugh so hard, my muscles turn to useless weight.  We tumble and turn and roll and squeeze and bite and tickle and laugh.  The laughter is honest, guttural, mirthful.  

Eventually I win out. My abilities overcoming hers as we wind up in a breathless heap.  I pin her and announce my victory in her trademark fashion.  The Winner immediately starts touching herself, rubbing her moisture on my body, making me taste what she had been vicariously teasing me with all day.  It's so unfair of her to do.  She is fully aware that tasting that will garner the response she is looking for.  

I make my way down to her knees, out of reach of her devilish hands, and I rest my face upon her thighs.  As I catch my breath, she continues to rub herself, and I continue to take in the view.  Eventually, my self-control and feigned disinterest fail.  I place my strong, able hands between her knees and make room for myself.  

The scent is the first thing to assault my senses.  Full, round, individual, and incredibly arousing.  My eyes find hers while I collect the wetness making its way down her thighs.  My tongue glides across her skin like raindrops down a window.  Silent and effortlessly I make sure to enjoy every possible moment of teasing her.  Coming closer and closer with every pass, I pull with lips and teeth as my warm breath rolls over her waiting lips.  I take my time, slowly migrating towards the center of all things.  

I push her legs in opposite directions until they will go no further, and I look at what I will soon be enjoying.  A woman, in all her complexity and intricacy, shows her vulnerability before me. The pads of my fingers begin rubbing on the outside of her lips, keeping their grip despite an abundance of lubrication.  I open her to the waiting lips and tongue.  A full and deliberate breath rains upon her, followed by a pulsating flat tongue.  

Using concise and firm pressure, I begin manipulating my mouth around her clit.  While my tongue makes its presence known, my hands remember the skin I enjoyed earlier on her breasts.  The taste is intoxicating, each moment of enjoyment causing its own pulse within me. After making sure to suck, flick, lick, and all other verbs known to a pussy-enjoying man like myself, her clitoris, I shift my oral attention further down.

As much as she enjoys what I had been doing up to that point, she prefers to feel my tongue as far inside as possible.  I am for that as well, since it gives me the chance to taste her at her warmest place.  I start slow, tracing the diameter of her as I make my way in.  She draws breath more quickly as my pattern of attention follows a progression inward.  Eventually I enter her fully with a pointed tongue that presses upwards.  As my nose and lip exchange places rubbing her clit, I look to her with my eyes and see the pleasure spreading in her countenance.  

I want her to cum. Not for me, but for her.  To feel her pussy be rewarded with release while I taste and engage with the most tender part of her.  I close my eyes and keep my face in place as her thighs press my head.  The vice holds me, her back and hips pushing into me, I push back with the effort I can give, and her moans grow more audible.  Fingers grasp my hair, nails digging into my scalp, and I am now at her mercy as she is at mine.  Tightening around me, underneath me, I can feel the orgasm travel through her.  

I make my way into a more intimate position as she enjoys the warmth of my body holding hers.  She kisses me deeply, and giggles. It's not a laugh, it's a giggle.  I ask her what's so funny, and she cannot seem to help herself by responding with more giggling.  Eventually she manages to tell me that she had won again, and that she had done a good job of getting what she wanted that morning.  Just like a little girl tricks a little boy into doing what she wants, I had fallen victim to her games.

I don't wanna grow up, though. 

I'm a Toys 'R' Us Kid

When I was a young fellow, being a toys r us kid meant you didn't wanna grow up.  As Peter Pan as that sounds, it makes sense.  I still haven't grown up, and I am not in a hurry.  There are grown-up aspects I possess, but I don't ever want to really grow up.

Talking with the Winner the other night, I realized how cool it will be to be and adult male who can come home to a woman at their residence.  It sounds silly, I know. Think about it, I implore you.  As a child (or someone living under someone else's roof), you never know that feeling of someone being in your house waiting for you to come home and have fun with.  I'm not talking about playing with your dog, either (although that will be cool too).  

As a professional business person, I would enter the house in my full suit.  Losing the jacket at the door, I would take a breath and absorb the comfort of being home.  All day I would have maintained my sanity and control while remembering just how soft her skin felt that morning.  How her cherubic hair fell like a river delta, flowing and nurturing, across my chest as I woke up.  The way she grabbed my hand on my way out the door, trying to tempt me to remain in bed with her for the remainder of the day.  Now I would be home, in the place I had made for myself, and for her.  In that thought, a man can take pride.  

My shoes would not allow me to sneak up on her, but I would try nonetheless.  As I track her singing down to the kitchen sink, I devise my strategy.  She greets me without turning, without looking to see that I was up to mischief.  She should know better, I haven't grown up that much.  My steps get closer and closer, and upon her finally looking to see what I was doing, my hands would be on the bottom of her shirt, pulling it up without hesitation.  

She doesn't wear a bra around the house, especially when she just got out of the shower and is waiting for me to come home.  The temptation is her fault, those supple, bountiful pieces of her have been in my vision every time I closed my eyes today.  The shirt off, my mouth on her breasts, teeth drawing closer to each other upon her exquisite nipples, hands tactilely consuming the skin about her sides and back.   She really enjoys having her breasts cared for, and I really enjoy our mutual pleasures.  Skin is skin, but the soft, virgin skin of a woman's breasts stands distinct from its integumentary companions.  

She begins unbuttoning my shirt while I rise to kiss those lips that had called me at 3 to remind me of how unfortunate my departure was earlier, how the articulate hands unfastening my collar had been forced to give pleasure intended for me to the only person still in bed.  The tie is pulled off in a hurry, and I stop her wandering palms to pick it up off the floor.   Now she can finally remove my shirt, which is thrown onto the counter, and begin the effort to return my torso to its natural state.  Once we both find ourselves in a state of northern exposure, she starts removing my pants.  Belt, clasp, zipper, in order, before my very aroused reminder of a long, throbbing day makes its appearance.  

The tie in my hands is placed around her neck, with either end covering up her nipples.  A woman in a tie is so sexy, and there is something I find irresistible about the idea.  Taking the initiative to give her a nice windsor knot to wear around her neck, I make sure the length of the tie is just right.  Now when I unbutton her jeans, the chevron inverts itself in the most directive of places.   We spend a fair amount of time pressed against the sink, the feel of her skin and the silk of my tie pressed against my body.  My height overwhelms her at times, and I make an effort to ease the bend in her neck by changing my body's position.  

Eventually the tie is taken hold of, and the woman is led to her bed.  As I remind her of the turmoil she caused me throughout the day with her explicit communication, that little girl appears in her smile, in her eyes, in her body language.  The woman then removes her jeans and gets on the bed.  Her form in the bed, a woman on the pedestal, is worthy of note.  

"Model that tie, sell it for me."

She shows me the sultry, Calvin Klein advertisement.  Curved back, fierce stare, carnal communication.  I ask her for fun, cute, All-American girl.  Her blonde hair, blue eyes and picturesque smile respond.  She jumps to her feet, and jumps on the bed, letting her hair dance around her in the most honest way.  I think I am sold on the tie, I'll buy three.

To be continued...

In response...

I wrote that post quickly, I wrote it in the moment.  In stream-0f-consciousness style.   There were places that were reality, were true, but the majority of it was my effort to submit to the idea.  The I want's were my roleplaying, my pretending, my empathizing with people who do sexually assault others.  

There are some women who enjoy the idea of all of this, who want to experience a situation like rape.  Protected, controlled, safer, with a partner they trust, but experience it nonetheless.  

Everyone contains human emotion, or the capability for it, on a wide spectrum.  Everyone holds the power to be dark, poisonous, hateful, an abuser.  Everyone. Denying that part of yourself is unhealthy, is repressive, is dishonest.  I am exploring my feelings, all of them.  I want to know myself, know my heart, know who I am.  People unwilling to understand themselves live in fear.

Since Richard brought up Freudian psychology, an outdated and empirically lacking approach, I'll phrase it in said terms:  Everyone contains a Thanatos, our lives are full of repressive powers minimizing our most basic drives.  The ego regulates this issue of mediating between the darkness and the social expectations on us.  Freudian therapy requires one to come to terms with these repressed desires, the catharsis easing the conflicted feelings inside.  

I take exception to the notion that I flirt with psychopathic tendencies.  F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function."  Without my ability to see something as someone else sees it, I am nothing.  

There was fantasy in my post yes.  However, the true intent remains the same.  To everyone who has been a victim of such a terrible thing, I feel for you.  And that's what I want, to empathize with the assaulted and the rapist.

I have been assaulted, sexually.  Multiple abusers, multiple times.  I can't even have relationship-free sex with a consenting partner without feeling terrible.  Fact is, I'm not psychopathic, I'm not a wicked person.  Instead, I am willing to search for the parts of myself that scare me.  Sorry for the apologetic post, but damage control seemed necessary.

Rape me

Nirvana doesn't qualify as one of my favorite bands.  They had good tunes, and changed a lot of stuff in music.  I don't swing from Kurt Cobain's nuts like Rolling Stone magazine does.  But I do like this verse of this song: 

Hate me

Do it and do it again

Waste me

Rape me, my friend

My father, truly the smartest man in the world, tells me that denying the ability to see or understand something is lying.  The lie protects me from facing the dangers I perceive in that thing.  The buddhist thing to do is to present myself at the feet of this thing and submit to what it has to teach me.  

Sexual assault is something that disgusts me.  Real sexual assault, real rape, real harm.  But in the spirit of the buddha, I decided to approach it with willingness to understand. 

I want to rape a woman.  Not really.  Maybe really, I'm not sure. No, I'm sure, I don't want to hurt anyone in such a way.  I do want to hurt a woman.  I want to slap her, I want to grab her by the hair, throw her on the ground, and completely overpower her attempts to resist.  I want to pull down her pants, and fuck her without concern for her feelings, for her pleasure, for my performance.  I want to make her suffer, to let my full weight squeeze the breath out of her.

I want to choke her to keep her from screaming.  Regardless of her protests, I want to fuck her in whatever usable hole I find desirable at that moment.  If I have to clutch the back of her neck to get her to bend over so I can rape her unwilling ass, I will.  My hands will squeeze, pluck, pull, twist, bind, and otherwise curl her breasts and nipples into any uncomfortable position I can think of.  

My fucking will not be anything beyond that of an angry, feral, hateful organism.  She will serve a purpose, and once I cum, I will grab her by the hair and throw her out.  

It's very late, and I wanted to share that exploration.  I agree with it. I would not do any of this against her will, truly.  We would have our safe word in place (I'm thinking Nevada).  Or maybe we wouldn't.  

Am I a bad person?  I do not care too much, since I believe some women need to be treated like warm holes, good for nothing more than abuse.  

Whoever this happened with would most likely never see the most extreme, terrible person I choose to contain.  And I would surely precede and follow this act with the tender, warm person I usually am.  

But for those moments I was free to be that man..... I am afraid of what I could be.  

Morning lights shine brighter

I woke up this morning feeling better, feeling ok.  I read last night's entry, and it is pretty melodramatic.  I'm not really too happy with it, and I am thinking about taking it down.  Might be a violation of the "spirit" of this blog experiment I'm trying, but I refuse to be a bitch.  Especially for any amount of time past the original emotion.  In today's clarifying perspective, I see I wasn't really attracted to her enough.  I was just being impetuous and foolish.  Not my style, not my form, not me.  That, plus my mental turmoil made it difficult to get it up, and once it was at 75 % or so, made it difficult to maintain.  Still a bad decision.  I just need to get a girl that I like being around, that I can screw around with, and not make it a big deal.  Kind of a sentimental friends with benefits arrangement?

Who knows

A good reminder

4 or 5 years ago, I experienced my one and only NSA encounter.  I felt terrible afterwards, I pledged I would never, ever do that again.  Well, I did.  Tonight, an hour ago, I had sex with a woman I had just met.  I couldn't feel any worse.

I thought time had passed, I was older, wiser, more mature. I could compartmentalize, set feeling aside from pleasure.  I was wrong.   

From the moment I walked in the room, everything about my heart said "Run, get away, leave."  It had nothing to do with her, she was fine.  My mental discord just split me in two.  It wasn't fear, or maybe it was. I believed that if I just pushed through it, I would be fine on the other side.  I thought I just needed to conquer it and go on.  I was wrong

In the spirit of honesty, I will admit: I was so uneasy, I couldn't even find the spirit to stand up and do my job.  I am such a fucking moron, talking about how I want something, how I need it.  No better than a 5 year old wanting a BB gun or a 15 year old wanting a dirtbike.  When it comes down to it, it wasn't right.  My morality killed me.  I thought that I had divorced my shame, my embarrassment.  I was wrong

With some oral persuasion, I got the motivation to get my erection.  Then I did what I was asked to do.  On my pride I rested as I drilled her face into that pillow.  It was the only thing I could find footing in.  I stayed to prove to her and myself that I can come in, and please a woman and leave.  I came in to prove to myself that it was ok to do that. I did not run so I could prove how strong I was.  I was proven wrong.

And now I am disgusted with myself.  Feeling the antithesis of what I expected to feel, what I wanted to feel.  I could not be any more shamed.  I am a fool.  Tonight was the worst decision I have made in the past 12 months.  My pride put one foot in front of the other into that room.  My shame lit my tail as I streaked away.  Guilt and shame and resentment and self-loathing are back.  And the only solace I have is in myself, the only face I can look to for comfort is the one in the mirror.  Never again, ever.  I am a terrible person for becoming the man I swore to be better than.  I lied to myself, and I have to live with that distrust.  Disgusting.

I love you man

This weekend I saw the new movie with Paul Rudd.  Funny, real funny, and refreshing to not have a villainous woman to have to push against.  In the light of the bromoerotic title, I had to share this magical occurrence:

I felt like spring air might infectiously lift some other people's spirits over this week, so I posted on CL last night, with the hopes of striking while the iron is hot.  Of the 17 or so responses I got, at least 12 were guys.  Some of the 17 were guys wanting me to get with their wives or girlfriends or whatever, but the 12 others were gay.  I have gay friends, bisexual friends, and have been around a lot of LGBT people.  I don't have issue with it.  Disclaimers given, I don't like dudes in that way.  Nothing about a dude is erotic to me.  When some guy says something along the lines of:

"hey bro, I know you're straight, but I was wondering if you wanted me to suck you off.  won't be gay, just give you head and you leave.  How about it?"

There is so much wrong with that.  So much.  

I am so sorry, women.  For all of the idiots that try to talk to you about this kind of stuff.  If those 12 gay dudes hit me up like that, I can't imagine the pain you must suffer.  

Please accept my gender's apologies.