To Serve Man
Some of the first words I learned to identify as a lie from a man were “I’ll never get married again.” I learned, early on, that these words hide a desperation to wed, a need so profound it’s almost physical. These words have duplicity in them, comfort for the woman to whom they are spoken, so that when the inevitable proposal comes, the woman feels singular, special. She thinks “I am the one who changed his mind”. People are so easy to deceive.
And I, in my own desperation and despair, would have fallen for them, had my circumstances not been what they are. And for that, I wonder if there might be a god, and if so, I thank it for the bizarre coincidences that led me to this point.
Which brings me around again to a subject I spend much thought on, when I have the time to spare for thought: sex and submission.
The two are the same for me, one necessarily leading to the other; a journey with a set destination. Submission is erotic, intoxicating. The thrill of being bound, or demurely on my knees, excites me in the most primal of ways. My favourite is the act of rape, in all aspects but my acquiescence. And the blade. I cannot forget the blade - at my throat, on my breasts, my back, between my legs…the blade excites me more. Especially with those who care, somewhat, about my safety; the aftermath of the cutting and the sting of the alcohol as it cleans. Then, even later, the burn of the water hitting the new wounds, a glorious reminder of that cool touch of steel on my soft skin. These are the things I desire, the things about which I fantasize. Violence, injury, aggression; these are the behaviors I require in bed. Never for me the passivity, the genteelness, of what some refer to as “making love”.
But the boundary is the bedroom door (figuratively speaking). I am neither a slave nor a servant. I don’t have the time or the inclination to let someone else make all the decisions, to have me at his beck and call. Nor do I have the freedom. I have responsibilities. First and foremost to my darling girl, Amethyst. I have, also, pleasures of my own that extend beyond the bedroom. Books and movies, music. Dancing, drinking, the company of friends. All of which my partner in the crimes of passion would be welcome to join, but not control.
Outside of the bedroom, I tend to dominate. Not always, and not necessarily on purpose, but it happens. I offer no apologies for it, either; nothing can prevent me being who and what I am. Even if no one is quite sure who or what that is…
Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking on this stormy morning. I love to serve, to obey, to submit in the erotic sense, but not in any other.
It is, after all, only a cookbook.
Laters
And I, in my own desperation and despair, would have fallen for them, had my circumstances not been what they are. And for that, I wonder if there might be a god, and if so, I thank it for the bizarre coincidences that led me to this point.
Which brings me around again to a subject I spend much thought on, when I have the time to spare for thought: sex and submission.
The two are the same for me, one necessarily leading to the other; a journey with a set destination. Submission is erotic, intoxicating. The thrill of being bound, or demurely on my knees, excites me in the most primal of ways. My favourite is the act of rape, in all aspects but my acquiescence. And the blade. I cannot forget the blade - at my throat, on my breasts, my back, between my legs…the blade excites me more. Especially with those who care, somewhat, about my safety; the aftermath of the cutting and the sting of the alcohol as it cleans. Then, even later, the burn of the water hitting the new wounds, a glorious reminder of that cool touch of steel on my soft skin. These are the things I desire, the things about which I fantasize. Violence, injury, aggression; these are the behaviors I require in bed. Never for me the passivity, the genteelness, of what some refer to as “making love”.
But the boundary is the bedroom door (figuratively speaking). I am neither a slave nor a servant. I don’t have the time or the inclination to let someone else make all the decisions, to have me at his beck and call. Nor do I have the freedom. I have responsibilities. First and foremost to my darling girl, Amethyst. I have, also, pleasures of my own that extend beyond the bedroom. Books and movies, music. Dancing, drinking, the company of friends. All of which my partner in the crimes of passion would be welcome to join, but not control.
Outside of the bedroom, I tend to dominate. Not always, and not necessarily on purpose, but it happens. I offer no apologies for it, either; nothing can prevent me being who and what I am. Even if no one is quite sure who or what that is…
Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking on this stormy morning. I love to serve, to obey, to submit in the erotic sense, but not in any other.
It is, after all, only a cookbook.
Laters
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