Fetish #46

     Pulling my living leash, as if to drive my lip, jaws and throat.  Fistfuls steer my head in wicked directions.  Down.  Up.  Directing my eyes to make contact.  Down.  Up.  Down.  Down.  Down.  Until I choke.
     Pulling my living reigns, as if to tame my wild thoughts.  My crown is turned against me.  Driving my head backward, my spine charges with electricity.  I'm tapped and plugged.
      The fruit of my devotion is uprooted from my scalp.  My wild thoughts are domesticated.  My body becomes a chariot for your pleasure.  I'm wrapped and tugged.

In this moment,
I pity the bald.

The Worst Feeling

     Coming home from work, I could instantly feel it in the air. Something was wrong. The silence and stillness of my apartment congested my stomach with caution. “Babe?” Calling for my girlfriend, the wrestling coming from the bedroom caused me more concern. “Babe?”
     Swinging open the door to my bedroom, the discovery of my girlfriend crying escalates my bad feelings. Rushing to her body, curled into a fetal position, I reach out to touch her, “What’s wrong?” Her body jerks away from my hand. Her sniffling evolves into sobs. I am overwhelmed by confusion, fear and guilt. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
     It takes her a while to collect herself. Something traumatic has just occurred. A myriad of morbid possibilities race through my mind. Finally able to touch her, it pains me to find that my touch is hurting her. No matter how tender, my touch is causing her great discomfort. With her face against a pillow, she struggles through the tears and mucus, “I….”
     My fear and imagination joins forces to haunt me. What happened while I was away? She’s falling apart. Her voice trembles again, “I….” The message lodges in her throat is choking her. The subject of her next sentence is tormenting her thoughts, “I….found something.”
     My heart drops. My stomach collapses. My thoughts of robberies, rapists and tragedies were all exchanged for something much worst. Playing stupid, I ask, “What did you find, Babe?” I know exactly what she found in the back of my linen closet. Do I pretend it isn’t mine? Do I make up an elaborate explanation to why I have a box full of gay porn in my apartment?
     She looks at me for the first time, her brown eyes are bloodshot. She knows I know what she found. Her voice matures to the point its ancient, “Just tell me it isn’t yours. I’ll believe you, I won’t bring it up again; just tell me it belongs to a friend or your brother or something. Please.”
     Two words, “It’s mine.” Shame of holy proportion stinks up the room. My head becomes too heavy to lift my eyes from the floor. It finally happened. Someone has finally stumbled upon my addiction. This is the worst feeling. A cardboard box turned me into a monster. Magazines. VHS tapes. DVDs. I’m no longer decent. “I’m sorry, babe.”

Footsteps Between Guilt & Pride

     I hear them. Clicking. Chattering. I can hear footsteps walking towards us, drawing closer and closer. Soon, we will be caught.
     Our climaxes are too close, yet too far to reach in time. We can’t stop. We should stop. But, withdrawing from you and getting completely dressed before that doorknob turns is impossible.

Where do we go?
How do we escape an inevitable light?

     My stroke stutters, smothered in adrenaline. Your breath shatters, smothered by my palm pressed over your mouth. The distance between our secret and the footsteps gets tighter. As does your legs wrapped around my thrusting hips. The space between our fantasy and the consequences are almost nil. Much like our alibis and diversions.
     Courage and modesty fight for dominance. I imagine the sight of us scrambling, stupidly shielding our shame from their eyes. I envision the sight of us fucking, loudly cumming as the door swings open. Is there an honorable way to be caught red handed? Is there a righteous way to confess after the evidence’s been discovered? Stripped of clothes, choices and merit, we make the last choice we‘ll ever make together: to continue.
     I’d rather fill their eyes with passion beyond explanation. I’d rather soil their minds alongside our reputation. The footsteps stop at the door. The deadbolt twists open. An innocent entrance sheds light on a multitude of sin. We do not run. In this moment, I choose to cast my seed and await the witnesses to cast their stones.

     The above images for from Gonzalo Benard's voyeuristic collection, "My Lonely Mornings."  It's a genius satellite experiment where subjects candidly spend their mornings in front of his camera.
     "When some years ago I moved to Barcelona, from my studio's window I had a view that I'd never had before; several buildings right in front and 'too' close. I found myself once at night looking in to those windows, observing people coming in and out of the rooms, kitchen, living and bathrooms leading separate lives. They probably didn't know their own neighbors, but I was observing their intimate lives as if they were on a stage, co-existing but not meeting each other." ~ Gonzalo Benard

Fetish #6

Completely naked…
Draped across my bed…
His body collapses as he exhales completely…
He’s ready.

Pointing to the left side of his ass,
He cautiously requests, “Here.”

Sealing my thick lips around the selected section of skin,
His body violently vibrates.
Drawing his blood to the surface with my lungs…
I sink my teeth into his flesh….
Softly at first…Slowly penetrating deeper and deeper.

His strained voice whispers, “Enough”

Completely naked…
His muscular body glistens with a fresh coat of sweat…
Cherries and plums come to mind,
Watching the colors fill the impression I left.

Pointing to a region slightly above his hip,
He wishfully laments, “Here.”

Fastening my teeth…
Praying for blood…
A primal memory returns of prey twitching between my jaws…
Forcefully sucking…
Leeching and gnawing…
I can feel his body growing stiff…
His voice rattles in his throat…

Hissing, he forfeits, “Enough”
I ignore him.

Pulling my neck back…
Slowing shaking my head back and forth…
The room fill with his voice.
He attempts to pacify himself by stroking his cock.

Scaring myself,
I release my hold on him…

Completely naked…
I take him into my arms…
Cradling and comforting him, I ask, “Where next?”


Oculophilia: The Look of Love

     There are so many ways to get inside of a person. Beyond the metaphysical and proverbial, I am learning that our body is riddled with doorways and portals. Orifices. Weak spots. Achilles’ heels. Alternatively, it seems that our body is designed to invade. We are gifted with fingertips, slick tongues and cocks that are made to squeeze into the tightest spots.

What's Sex?

If it isn’t the supreme act of passing through skin,
penetrating through barriers?

If it isn't the suppression of our natural defenses,
relaxing through the invasion?

Case & Point

     Making out with my boyfriend, we found ourselves in a very intimate and trusting space. It seemed as though every kiss, every touch was loaded with orgasmic energy. I couldn’t touch enough skin. My nerve endings became gluttons for pleasure. Our deepest kiss made me thirst for more depth. We have sparked a dreadfully insatiable fire, spreading beyond our control.
     I love the way he surveys my body. With great interest, he traces my lips with his fingertips… He slicks my eyebrows with his thumb… He kisses my nose, one nostril at a time… Pressing his lips into my forehead, he began to kiss my face all over. Cheeks. Lips. Chin. Eyes.
     Struck by curiosity, he began to dart his tongue over my eye. His voice softly commands, “Open your eyes.” I could literally hear my eye forcefully twitching as I fought to keep them open. I could hear the whistle of my brain’s insistent command to squint and close. Feeling the wet, tip of his tongue grazing across my eyeball, the room filled with a black and white haze.
     Although it wasn’t painful, a high pitched whine escaped from my lips as I felt his tongue squeeze itself within my lower eyelid. I could feel every instinctual alarm go off in my body as my vision become coated in his warm breath and spit. I began to fear for my vision.
     In his tight embrace, he found and deflowered a hidden virgin. Careful. Delicate. He did not want to hurt me. As my body grew more and more quiet, this sensual act became a form of meditation. We both became very still and silent as he tasted my sight. I felt so close to him. In a moment of complete vulnerability, he was so gentle. A sexual metaphor, his style of eye licking suggests he‘s a considerate man.

What’s love?
If it isn’t the shedding of one’s own protective layers?
If it isn’t the forfeiture of one’s own preservative instincts?

What can I say?
I’m in love.


Soft. Dainty. Petite. Your small fist sliding across my erection fills me with both pleasure and pride. The sight of my remaining length overflowing from your slick grasp… The sight of your fingers struggling to encircle around my girth… The sight of your ambidextrous handling magnifies my dick into a strong tower...

You have pretty, little legs.

Smooth. Flexible. Graceful. I love the way both of your ankles fit in my left hand. I love the way I fill your insides to the brink. Taking me in completely, your pretty, little face twists. The sensation of ramming against the back wall… The sensation of rhythmically lifting your body off the bed… The sensation of your legs kicking helplessly gives me a taste of power.

I need to feel giant, for a change. Dwarfed in my work place. Deducted in my economy. Diminished on almost every other scale, I need to feel too big to fit. I need to feel taller than my credit score. I need to feel larger than my one-bedroom apartment. With you, I finally feel aligned to my true size. Or perhaps, you’ve managed to breathe life into my fantasy of being more.

You have a pretty, little mouth.

Pouting. Delicate. Ambitious. My cock splits your face in half. Your jaws are under stress, your cheeks’ elasticity is tested; but you want this so badly. I can feel your wisdom teeth… I can feel your gag reflex contracting… I can feel the muscles in your neck quivering… I am overwhelmed with pleasure and pride. Your pretty, little face multiplies my seed into an orchard as you beautifully fail to ingest.

The End is Near

"But realize this, that in the last days difficult times will come.  For men will be lovers of self, lovers of money, boastful, arrogant...without self-control, brutal...treacherous, reckless, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of god; holding to a form of godliness..."

(II Timothy 3:1-5,7)

     When I was younger, I was very interested in the Apocalypse.  My church and Jack Van Impe painted this bleak and perverted time to come, where Sodom resurrects and the world stands at its final hour.  It was great stuff.

American godlessness.
Gluttony and hedonism taken to new heights.
The Mark of The Beast
Decadence and depravity becoming mainstream.

     I've been keeping a watchful eye on our culture.  The lines between man and beast are softening and blurring.  Blasphemy is getting sexier every day.  Either Apostle John's accounts were correct or I'm not the only one inspired by The Book of Revelations.  I, too, find myself pushing the envelope to biblical proportions.  I am always thinking of fresh, new ways to magnify sin until its an abomination.  Again, great stuff.

On the set of Gio Peter Black new video "Revolving Door"


     We aren’t supposed to be here. I could be humiliated. I could be fired. I could lose everything, if someone were to walk through that door and discover what we are doing. Completely naked: your ivory legs opened wide; my blackness coated in shining sweat. Our trespassing is a misdemeanor. Us fucking here is a felony. The slight possibility of getting caught is vastly multiplied by the sounds of your moans and grunts increasing in volume. God forbid anyone’s within earshot.
     Drunken by sex, blinded by unplugging every possible lamp, I reach out and pat the ground. Searching for some article of clothing. Searching for something I wouldn’t mind drenching in saliva. Upon discovery, I ball up my tank top, pry your jaws open and cram the fabric into your whimpering mouth. You are ignited.

The closing of one door, opened many others.
Without the restraint to stay quiet,
Your sexuality was turned up to full volume.

     Licking light circles around your nipple makes your voice buzz through the cotton. Pulling a tight fistful of hair fills your throat with electricity. Dragging you from the desktop to the floor fills the room with a quiet, muffled whistle. Something about the sounds coming through that shirt arouses me so deeply. The gag strips your voice down to its bare vibration.
     Turning you over, your back looks amazing in the darkness. I love the way the impact from my thrusts ripple through your skin, muscles and bones. Your muted, rhythmic yelps are silent music to my ears. I delve deeper, pound harder; just to hear what your filtered cries sound like.

Part sadist, part scientist,
I wanted to sample the frequency of your sobs…
The frequency of your bawling…
The frequency of your safe ignored…

"Fragments" by Exterface

Fetish #21759

     I've attempted to walk away cold turkey.  I've tried seeing you a little less each week.  It's pointless, baby.  My pulse slows down to a crawl.  My blood thickens into vermillion molasses.  My brain throbs as if it's throwing a tantrum.  I can not quit this love without quitting life.  I intend on living.
     You hold the violet keys to my crown chakra.  In your embrace, ideas fall from the sky like Israeli Manna.  With you on my mind, living poetry scribbles itself across my memory like God's graffiti.  Damn, I need you.  I can't keep up the pace alone.  I can't create at the speed of thought without you.

I did the math.

     The damage you do to my heart is minimal compared to the luster and brilliance you bring to my love.  The years you subtract from my life makes life so much sweeter.  There is a positive correlation between the health risks and increased productivity.  The symptoms of withdrawals include: dullness, boredom and losing everything.  (Bonus: I love triple-paced songs that fall apart in the end.)
     Turn up the dial, Baby.  Accelerate my blood pressure.  Step on the gas in my mind.  Make my eyes wild from sleepless nights.  Let's ride until the wheels fall off like Rockstars.  Let's enslave the world like Starbucks.  Let's buzz and build like Yellowjackets.  Sure, it'll shorten my time but you'll heighten my life expectancy.

Dark Compersion

"No, no; don't worry about it! I actually like making beds!"

     She smiles sweetly, but her mind reflects a darker joy.  Looking at the mangled sofa coach, the tightly twisted comforter; she is filled with a subtle excitement.  Her thoughts tease, "Did we keep him up?"  Looking at the small wet spots in the fabric discovered in the sheets and the pillow cases.  Tears?  Semen?  The belief that she scored both points last night made her wet.  

Besides, if the neighbors heard her orgasms...
Even Van Gogh's rest would've been disturbed in the living room...

     Neatly unraveling the linen, she thinks about him tossing and turning all night.  Noise sensitive?  Jealous?  Swish...the crowd in her mind goes wild.  "How'd you sleep?"  His answer falls on uninterested ears; she knows the truth: terrible.

The headboard maintained a rhythmic ruckus.
Their voices testified with deep moan and shrill climaxes.
Shit, he got a cramp in his abdomen, she made him come so damn hard.

     Making breakfast for him, she jokes, "You know, he never gets to his breakfast while its warm."  Her omelet: perfect.  Fresh, squeezed O.J: sweet.  The only bitterness that would cause his chewing jaw to twist: he's in love with the man snoring in her bed.  "Salt?"  She knew from the moment they met, the way he looks at him gave it all away.  Oddly, she likes it.
     Walking to the refrigerator, she wonders if he picks up on her man's scent all over her body.  Envious?  Curious?  She begins to imagine him peeking into their private moment.  Hating the scent of pussy, yet unable to lift his eyes off its magic.  Hating the name smeared all over his moans, "MIRIAM", yet loving the sight of him shoot.  Indulge in the idea of scoring two points that night...swish.  Envy and curiosity turns his breakfast sour.

His awkward steps out her home,
"Thank you for the breakfast.
I wish I could finish, but I'm running late for my 10 o'clock,"
inspired her to give her man a wake-up call.

"In Grand Stile" by Steven Meisel

30 Days of M-Drive (Introduction)

I recently received the opportunity to try and review a male supplement

     This supplement enhances the production of testosterone using, supposedly, natural ingredients.  I can attest that, in my thirty day trial, I have gone through subtle, yet significant changes in my behavior and physiology.  I was amazed to find that many of my personality traits could be influenced hormonally.

I present to you my experience:

30 Days of M-Drive

30 Days of M-Drive

     I found myself jogging at 3 am.  Taking all the sketchy shortcuts.  Circling the lake at its most vacant and dark time of day.  Since taking M-drive, a part of me wanted to find trouble.   I liked the way my heart races as I run behind closed shopping centers.  The rush of dark, wooded areas made me feel alive.  The higher volume of testosterone has turned me into a thrill seeker.
     A few times, my runs were punctuated by a hook-up.  Anonymous cocksuckers found on Craig's List, whom wanted nothing more than a hot load.  No Strings Attached.  No Reciprocity.  No Names.  Before the pills, I indulged and appreciated oral service.  Laying back, I used to meditate on the pleasure.  But these days?  I want my head while standing over them.  My fingers digging into their skulls, pressing their thirsty mouths downward until they choked.

I am different these days.

     My girlfriend recognized this difference.  More frigid.  More aggressive.  More cum.  Much more cum.  Sex on M-Drive, made her feel like I was trying to kill her with my cock.  She felt like I was trying to gnaw the meat off her bones.  She loved it.  She hated it.  She contemplated breaking up.  Naturally, I am more fluid; not so dominating.  Naturally, I am more like a squishy octopus than a strong bull.  In spite of multi-orgasmic nights, she missed me.
     I found myself jogging at 3 am; I couldn't sleep.  Taking all the short cuts, nothing was quick enough.  I was an insatiable, bottomless pit.  Wanting revenge.  Wanting success.  Wanting something wet, warm and screaming wrapped around my dick.  But, after receiving all of the above, it proved to be dissatisfying.
     The month I spent with higher levels of testosterone was an adventure.  I was focused and motivated, but maybe too much so.  Ultimately, I felt almighty and powerless because I couldn't dominate the world the way I wanted to.  It was an agonizing, but sexy experience.

After my thirty-day supply ran dry,
I was glad to return to my natural balance.
(But, I do miss the big loads!)

Fetish #114857

Wheel of Life (Featuring Yusef Lateef)

I want to make a blood offering to My God

Dangling fowl by their feet,
I dance as their wings flap wildly.
Slicing.  Pulling.  Pouring.
 My naked torso is covered in life...
The earth beneath my feet is soaked...
The music possesses me,
I dance until I'm completely nude
Shouting.  Singing.  Clapping.
My temple is anointed in sweat and blood...

Moving my hips in procreative motions...
Stomping the dust until it clouds the sky...

     I've always dreamed of wild, pagan rituals.  Primitive.  Sexual.  Possessing.  I want to dance bear foot in the wilderness.  I want to scream in cathartic blasts of harmony.
     I can hear the maracas, summoning the rain.  Hand-made drum commanding me to move faster.  I want to empty myself in such a way!
     I dream of carnal orgies, a furious fellowship of the flesh.  Panting in rhythm.  Thrusting as if the harvest depended on it.  Climaxing in unison.  I sincerely believe such an event has the potential to be powerful with the right intention behind it.

One of these days,
I'll have this occasion.
If I have to stage it myself!

The Fetish Game

I (heart) FetLife: BDSM & Fetish Community for Kinksters, by kinksters

Anyone that knows me knows:
I am very entertained by the new, fetishist site

     One of my favorite activities on the site is coming up with specific 'fetishes' to add to my laundry list.  You are allowed to create very specific terms to your arousal and delight, or even small clues to who you are outside of the whips and chains.  The amusing thing about these fetish lists is that it includes: curiosities, inside jokes, sarcasm and so on.  The term 'fetish' is used very loosely.
     Every 'fetish', member and group is categorized by number, which gave me an idea.  I will be doing a fun series which will a bit like a riddle.  Just follow along with me.  You'd need to start a Fetlife account, which is free, to get the full picture.  Going into deep detail, I'll only giving away the number and link to my fetish.

This is going to be fun.

Praise of a Stranger Shade

     In the midst of our making love, your praise escaped her lips.  With her ankles in my grip, her toes in my mouth, her body full of my erection; you filled her mind.  You.  She saw me thrusting from above, heard me churning from behind, felt me supporting her from beneath; yet, your name flew from her mouth in the height of ecstasy.

Did you hear it?

     I imagine her thankful cries creeping into your dreams, disturbing you sweetly.  I imagine your woman's intuition tingling while you slept, rocking you awake.  Did your ears burn four o'clock, Thursday morning?  You had to have felt something, there was a seismic orgasm with your name on it.  There were quivering limbs pushing your influence away.  She soaked the mattress with gratefulness in her heart...for you.  Did you feel it?
     Of course, she knows the horror stories.  She has personally nursed my wounds.  She lent plenty of ear to hear my drunken babble about the time you did whatever you did that broke my heart.  Yet, and still; she didn't scream out to "God".  She didn't cry out to "Jesus".  She thanked you.
     She explains: my ex-girlfriends are the mothers of my loving today.  Particular.  Demanding.  Irritable.  I can see how I've been disciplined.  Every welcoming touch is engineered by a rejection in the past.  Every position is carefully crafted by every headache, every cramp, every time your legs went out.  In that moment of climax, she appreciated the lover I've grown to be.

And, I'm no auto-dict.

"Dobo Kata" by Oleg Borisuk

Illuminating Darknesss

     Tonight's suite swings into the second movement where the crowded orchestra boils down to a duet.  The party is over. The florescent surrenders to light of a different nature.
     The darkness fills with the glow of your raspy soprano.  Your neck beneath my lips shines with the scent of amber.  My earlobe between your teeth...  The soft soles of your feet sliding up my calves...  Tight contractions made my body smolder.
     Struck blind, I caught my first glimpse of you.  Animal.  Deity.  Your body was highlighted beyond sight.  The taste of sweat and flesh.  The slick, smooth textures.  The wet aromas of arousal.

I've discovered your hidden dimension in the dark.


      Me.  Her.  The Holiday Inn.  Over three days, we explored a thousand and one ways to reach sexual satisfaction.  Ping-pong paddles.  Hair brushes.  Enemas.  Furry, fox pajamas.  The works!  Since we planned our weekend respite, I was ecstatic about one thing: breaking out my new corset from The Folsom Street Fair.
     After fumbling with the clasps on the front, I was ready to be zipped up tight.  I hissed, "Tighter," the way the corset compressed my torso pressed all of my hot buttons.  Pulling the laces tighter and tighter, she squeezed the air from my lungs.  My spine was forcefully straightened.  My submissive side awakened.
     Pulling my hair, she barked, "On your knees."  After running her tongue across my face and around my open mouth, she pushed me on all fours.  Planting her foot on my ass, she grunted as she tightened the laces even further.  I was surprised by how much I wanted it be crushed.  Putting her weight into it, I could feel my insides collapse.  To be bound this way felt so fucking good.
     Still on my knees, I could hear her toy box rattle.  The anticipation for me is always more painful than anything in her arsenal.  Deep down, I fear her.  I am scared of her sadistic nature.  No warm up.  No warning.  My body stings from the hairbrush striking my ass.  The sound of the plastic slapping against my ass cold be heard throughout the first floor.  I don't know if it was the corset restricting my breathing or if I was feeling more feminine.  A soprano whimper escaped my bearded face.  A second blow soon followed.
     I couldn't turn away.  I couldn't turn around.  Nothing is more vulnerable.  My entire body was hers for the taking.  With this black opportunity, she chose to beat and fuck me into climax.  That was the night I fell in love with wearing corsets.


     He's a bit gnarly.  Cheap tattoos, dirty fingernails and a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip.  Gamy.  Messy.  Fun.  Why do I care?  I think, he provokes my nurturing side.  I think I developed crush seeing his shorts riding low on his narrow, long naked torso.  Perhaps, I detect a silver lining in his body odor?
     I want to scrub him hard, until he emerges from my bathtub with a clean slate.  I want to run his blood through a coffee filter...fix his credit score...save him from himself.  I think he knows this.  The stupid grin on my face speaks volumes.  I'm sure he has noticed my eyes stuck on the promising lump in his lap.

That would explain a lot.

     That would explain why his shower at home is always broken, needing to use mine.  His conversations on my couch about punk culture, wearing only a towel.  His detailed stories about the chicks he fucked, complete with subtle demonstrations.  The promising lump in his lap growing from his recollection.
     Parting his thighs, his stench intoxicated me; bringing the floor to my knees.  Gamy.  Hairy.  Hung.  I don't remember how I got between his legs.  I don't remember how my throat got filled with cock.  I awakened to his balls bouncing on my tongue.  My eyes were barely open to see him shoot across my shoulder, face and opened mouth.  He's a bit gnarly.
     Using the towel from his shower, he cleans the cum from his belly.  Why is it, clarity often follows the orgasm?  Before I could wash my face, his voice killed my fantasy, "Hey, you think you could help me out?"

'Carbon Copy' by Terry Smith

The sober heart behind: "Who I Am"

     When dealing with my liquid muse, Fernet Branca, I often find frustration at the bottom of her bottle.  The floodgates of my thoughts open wide and everything gets wet.  Simply put: I have a lot of anger inside.
       When writing, 'Who I Am', I just wanted to articulate the misconceptions of the world that leaves me feeling isolated.  Why can't I be educated and hyper-sexual?  Why can't I be a fetishist and spiritual?  I get so mad when people cancel a part of my identity because they can't image someone with it all.
     I can be poly-amorous and honest and intimate.  I have oral fixations and morals and discipline.  It doesn't have to be one or the other.  Aren't we all this way?  Are we all, to one degree or another, part scholar, part saint and part slut?
    Does my Fetlife page fill my Facebook with lies?  Does 'Journals of an Intelsexual' discredit my view on spirituality and health?  Unfortunately, according to many viewpoints, it does.  Its a shame.
I'm not just describing myself
I am describing the brilliant design within each individual.

     Askan Honarvar's collection, "Ubakagi" captures this natural complexity perfectly!  And the fact that he used black men really touched me.  He translates the truth that we are so much bigger than our appearances.

Honarvar fuses this all gracefully.

View his provocative collection:


Mein Süßer

Puncturing your skin under my teeth...
Dragging the blood to your flesh with my lungs...
Wedging my tongue between all of your body's niches...
Is a delicacy like no other.

     Your signature sweetness abandoned my palette, but echoes eternally on my memory of my tongue.  Your love is seasonal, yet forever ripe in my mind.  Baking in the warmth of my longing, the scent of your foreign flavors fills my home.

Does exotic import ever become domestic?

     Forgive me in advance, as I greedily gnaw on your bones...  Stabbing at you hastily with sterling instruments... Chasing you with wine and spirits, before taking another mouthful... Forgive me, for my fast from Mein Süßer drove me mad with hunger.

      "The Celestial One", photographed by Pablo Chester, features the angelic, French model Chris Tianssen.  Sugar personified.  Looking through his photos, I am given, both, erections and cavities.

Check out more of "The Celestial One"

Visit one of my favorite blogs:

Who I Am

I eat my own cum.
My girlfriend pegs me hard in my ass.
I don't have to know you, to suck your toes.
I have a true relationship with God.

I have multiple, sexual partners.
I eat pussy and suck cock.
I eat my cake and have it, too.
I am 100% committed to my lovers

 I am not contradictory.
I am not complex.
I am not shallow
I am not deep
I am simply who I am.

'Ubakagi' by Ashkan Honarvar (Perverted by negative and embossing effects)

Eating Eye Candy

Damn, he is so pretty!
*Add as friend*
OMG! He accepted me!

     He is a genius with his camera phone.  Perfect angles of his abs made of gold bricks and perfect pectorals.  Clicking through his photo album, because I'm his friend now I can see more shots...more flesh...more downward angles.  I wish I could see the rest of his cock, but Facebook won't let him go further than his curly mound.  I wonder if he's on Fetlife?
Why does he have to live so far away?

     LMAO!  We LOL at the same episode of South Park.  He makes the funniest observations.  Who would've thought someone so gorgeous could be so deep!  He quotes famous authors and my favorite song lyrics.  I love that he fights against gay bullying, he posts the latest articles.  He's so current!
     I wish I was smart enough for six pack abs, sometimes.  The world would open up for me.  I'm funny.  I'm have thoughts.  But I LOL by myself about shows no one knows about.  Maybe if I could get closer to him, ingest him, I could pick up some of his trait?  I could suck up his beauty.  Eat enough of his good genes that I take then on.  Why do you have to live so far away?

Hope he doesn't mind
*copy + paste*
This is just an experiment...
Will they like my updates?
Will they LOL
Will they OMG at my body...I mean, your body?

*56 New Notifications*
"Faces V" by Askhan Honarvar

"Ewww" + "Yum!" = ????

     Conflicting.  Contradicting.  Confusing.  A strand of experiences swells in my mind, turning my stomach, activating my gag reflex; yet, hardening my erection.  Have you ever experienced disgust and arousal simultaneously?
     The internal civil war excites me.  Self-preservation dukes it out with my curiosity.  My logic argues with the strange, silent pervert dwelling within.  This conflict gives me the dissonance I've grown to really like; the sensation of being pulled in two different directions.
     There is also the element of fear during this dynamic.  If I find a climax within the disgust, would that transform me in to the very thing I loathe?  If I find the silver lining of pleasure within an otherwise fucked situation, would that take me a step further than curious?  Is this the nasty broth of which fetishes are born?

     The portfiloio of Daikichi Amono epitomizes the erotic-repulsive cocktail I speak of.  When confronted by something toxic, I love the way my body responds.  Launching adrenaline...Heightening my senses... I also love betraying my instincts, diving deeper into the danger.  (Within reason, of course.)

Remember 'Beloved'?

Do you remember this song?

The Artist...The Title...The Album
Are all unimportant.
What is important: the magic after the play button being pressed.


Now do you remember?
     This song used to put us in a trance.  This song became an inevitable anchor, sinking us deeper into madness.  Heightening our passion, 'Beloved' numbed the pain of being rubbed raw.  The intro alone would clear the room, whether everyone left the premises or not.
     The hypnotic lead harp would cast a deep shadow over bright summer afternoons.  The subtle, rapid percussion would automatically cancel our plans.  The way Yusef's horn moaned, inspired us to perform an impromptu performance.  Whimper.  Chatter.  Yelp.  Scream.  Slap.  We became a part of the ensemble.
Playing this song on repeat,
...Tuesday would fade into Thursday...
...Voice mailboxes filled to their capacity...
...Appointments became requests to reschedule...

     Do you remember 'Beloved'?  Do you remember the applause, the cheers?  We truly believed the standing ovation was for us.  We felt like we were fucking in front of an adoring audience.  Or, did we feel like an orchestra was in our bedroom?  Who was where is unimportant.  What is important: the magic still there after the stop button has been pressed.

"Eden" by Denis Rouvre

     "Beloved" by Yusef Lateef, in my opinion, is one of the sexiest songs every composed.  The polyrhythmic percussion...The moaning horns...The seductive harp...There are countless erotic elements to this song.  There are countless positions...countless experiments...countless orgasms, I have experienced to this record.  There is an undeniable charge...

I just returned from seeing Yusef Lateef live at the Grace Cathedral.

For my review of the performance:

Welcome to The Dark Deluxe

If you haven't noticed, I have peculiar taste.

      Avant-garde and dissonant music.  Strange and exotic cuisine.  Crazy movies that gives me a headache. Anything experimental... Anything fresh... Anything the stimulates a strange response: I need it.
     This peculiar taste has proven to be an isolating quality.  I've never met anyone who listens to the kind of music that's in my collection.  Nor have I found anyone willing to go dutch with me at an expense, bizarre restaurant.  There is a lot in my iPod and refrigerator that I have to enjoy alone.  (And let's not get into my ill-fated, movie suggestions!)
     The primary purpose of this new blog is to put it out there.  John Zorn. Visitor Q.  Fernet Branca.  Alice Coltrane.  Holy Mountain.  Dinuguan.  These are a few of my favorite things.  Hopefully, I can find others that appreciate the lesser known pleasures.

For upscale + underground
Sounds, Cinema and Cuisine

Check out my new blog:

Auto-Sthenolagnia: My Search for a Fitness Dom

I envision him...
Prying my jaws open with his thumbs,
Pouring protein shakes slowly down my throat.
"That's a good boy."

Jogging besides me,
Tanning my hide when my pace slows to a crawl.

Counting my reps,
Forcing me to lift more than I've ever had,
"C'mon! Push it out!"

     For the last few months, I've been looking for a "Fitness Dom".  It's like a workout partner, with a BDSM aspect.  This would be just the catalyst I need to break through to the next level.  Having a kinky companion to weight train and run with me, would be a great addition to my life.  I am in love with the idea of being tangibly transformed by a relationship.

I envision him...
Pulling the shirt up from my sweating torso,
"You're looking real good there, Boy."
Prying my jaws open with his thumbs,
He shakes protein in spurts down my throat.
"That's a good boy."

     In my book, sex doesn't only make everything better, it makes everything okay.  If he wanted to bind my arms and lock me onto a StairMaster for hours...  If he wanted to greet each rep of my sit-ups with his erection...  If he wants to swat my ass to add speed to my squats...That would be fine by me!  Ultimately, I believe that I would accomplish more under his discipline than my own.  Plus, the reward of sexual favors would be a great motivator.
     I've been posting ads here and there, with little luck.  People find the prospect of forced exercise and diet domination alluring, but I haven't found anyone willing to go all the way.  The people I have encountered are there intellectually, but the problem seems to lie in the transition from theory to triceps extensions.  Another bump in the road: finding someone fit enough themselves to take on the challenge.  It's one thing to shout orders in between fistfuls of popcorn, but I'm looking for someone who's also looking to transform.
     For now, I'll continue to fantasize.  Nude yoga and stretching.  Long distance runs to an erotic end.  A thousand and one ways to take a protein shake.  I'm sure something will come up.  Maybe someone would read this post and respond?



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