Life & Lygerastia: Arousal by Darkness

     I have always been very curious about BDSM culture.  Bondage, gear and filthy darkness inspires me.  Artful.  Abstract.  Exhaustive.  How much can you take?  How far can your legs stretch?  Where is your breaking point?  It's all about pressing against limitations.
     As taboo as it sounds, we've all been there one way or another.  Anyone who has ever been in love can relate to becoming a human chandelier dangling naked in the basement.  Anyone who has ever been in love can relate to submitting to a master, praying he does you right.  Anyone who has ever been in love can relate to loving someone so much, you want to choke the life out of him/her.
It really isn't as edgy as it seems.

What would it look like...
If we were to condense your last relationship thirty minutes?

Stuffed Animals
Mom's Good China Smashed and Shattered
Would co-exist in a single moment...

I really love the man behind this exhibition! He does it for me.
Equal parts perversion, pulp and polish
He creates a dark industrial playground

If applause could be measured by masturbation
I would give Ulli Richter a standing ovation!

Melolagnia: Janet Jackson

     Revisiting this memory has always been easy. I can remember the hot Michigan humidity and the smell of melted plastic coming from the backseat of Mom's station wagon so vividly.  To this day, whenever I hear the Fender Rhodes play on the intro to Janet Jackson's, "Funny How Time Flies", I return to being seven-years-old. The soft whimpering that laced Janet's French monologue, filled my mind with very dirty thoughts.
     My imagination escaped from me for the first time. Visualizations of writhing naked bodies and gender-neutral orgies swirled in my pre-pubescent mind. From the perspective of a child, the song quickly registered to me as sensual and sweetly painful. Hearing her moaning for him to stop, I remember asking myself, "Hurting can be good?" Who would've thought I'd spend my life discovering the answer to that question.

This is why I blame Janet Jackson for being the freak I am today.

     In her endeavors, she has managed to merge the mainstream with fetish. She graces magazine covers wearing rubber suits. She talked to Oprah about the pleasures of nipple piercings. She appeared in a hip-hop video draped in cock rings. She visited MTV's "Total Request Live" and unveiled her song "Would You Mind?" The teens cheered as they heard the lyrics, "I just want to love you/ suck you / make you cum, too."

Who else has this kind of license?

For those who prefer their aphrodisiacs audio,
I urge you to gather these down-tempo, lust grooves.

"Funny How Time Flies"
"Someday is Tonight"
"Anytime, Any Place"
"China Love"
"Would You Mind?"
"Take Care"

More Masculine Mystery...

The Mystery of the Male Body

     As a kid, one thing that have really primed my homosexual feelings was the shroud of mystery surrounding the male body.  I remember watching movies and noticing how women were so thoroughly exposed while men were always censored.  To see films creatively edited to cover or evade the penis, testicles and ass of men made me very curious.  What were they hiding?  Why are they hiding it?  In the rare moments when they would flash a cock or an ass, (as a young boy, mind you) I used to pause the film at the exact millisecond of exposure.
     As a teenager, I began to read workout magazines, getting off to the outlines of the model's penis shining through the spandex.  Having the male body hidden and alluded to turns something on in my mind.  Flipping through Playgirl or Mandate had a different effect on me than Men's Workout.  Of course, I love my pornography, but my favorite erotica allows my imagination to fill in the blanks.
     Every now and again, I'll purchase a menswear catalog or a fitness magazine and let my mind wonder.  The photographer knows what they're doing, the model's shorts will rise just enough.  The bulges are big and suggestive.  I love the way they demonstrate a bench press with their knees far apart, exposing their inner thighs.  Everyone in the world knows how to do bench presses, but every issue I can submerge in the fantasy of spotting the man of my dreams.  Coincidence?  

The Photoset "02:01" is a celebration of masculine mystery...

Vorarephilia: The Arousal of Being Swallowed Alive

I know I've stepped into a trap...
I won't drink or eat anything you have to offer
...because it's been too long...
 Since you've been touched
Since you've had any human this way

I know I've stepped into a trap
But I've grown to love the nervousness
I appreciate the anxiety
My body craves to be devoured by your desperation

     Hands gnaw at my body.  I just got through your front door and you're missing me already.  Gnashing at my thighs, sucking on my neck and inhaling all eight inches instantly; I continually remind myself to be careful.  If your dreams were to come true, I'll be draped across this bed forever...This erection would last an eternity...I'd reside on his dining table to be consumed three times a day.  Pleasure and adrenaline fills my body as I plan my escape route. 

This is madness.
     Binding my arms, your language composed of pants, groans and sighs fills my ears.  Restraining my wrists, I am filled with both concern and arousal.  What if my instincts are right?  I want to go home and deeper at the same time.  Contradictory feelings of vorarephilia and claustrophobia tears at my mind.  I'm good...saturated by your lust and sweat...

This is dangerous.

I love the 3-D action, it really makes me a good way...
This collection from Exterface's "Psilocybine"
I hope this is the beginning of a new trend...

Enjoy rest of this ground breaking spread:

Partialism: Skin


You must've figured out how to ride your bicycle on the first try;
Never once falling off...
Your even-toned complexion must've never faced sharp edges.
Never been rubbed wrong by rough surfaces.
Never been bitten by parasitical evils.

Laborers toil beneath the hot, merciless eastern sun
to bring an offering of olives, oils and creams to your bathroom
to bless your flesh with herbs, stones and flavors

I can't lift my eyes
I can't seal my lips
I can't keep my hands from touching
The perfection you've been wrapped in since birth...

Between Lust & Envy: God Damned Athletes!!!!

No one inspires more blasphemy
No other group fills my heart with more contempt
I can write a thousand 'partialism' posts

I hate athletes!
Every Olympic game reminds me:
All men are NOT created equal!

     For a long time, I have found much comfort in the idea that most athletes were illiterate simpletons.  It's a relieving theory that these gods are actually on steroids, thus having a tiny micro-penis.  And if all disillusions fail, I can assume that they are big assholes who are terrible, bad people: wife beaters and dog kickers.  Desperately clinging to anything that debunks their superiority, I'm running out of hypotheses
     Scientifically speaking, the genetic package that gives athletes an advantage, also blesses them with symmetrical features and a mesomorphic build.  In other words; they are bred to be super sexy.  Furthermore, the constant training also increases brain function and sexual prowess.  Overall, they are possibly just better people...there is no God...
     Another disappointing truth, being buff and beautiful doesn't guarantee heathen-like behavior.  I've had the pleasure of hanging around some gorgeous Oakland Raiders and they're actually educated, fun, down-to-earth guys.  I was waiting for the arrogance, maybe some violent misogyny; no such luck.  Surprisingly conservative, these guys merely wanted to settle into a nice traditional family life. 
What does that mean for us?

     I believe that our current status, whether superior or inferior, is a composite of our lifestyle and choices leading up to today.  It isn't too late to change your diet.  Gym memberships are cheaper than ever.  Some benefit packages are starting to cover cosmetic surgery.  When you think about at it, we worship athletes because they are a high quality picture of health and discipline.  Hence, we could be like them by embodying those same qualities. 

If we get it together,
We could be in great shape
 Just before they all die of AIDS from fucking hundreds of groupies.

Prayerfully, Magic Johnson's stingy with the cure...

The envy inducing photos are from Rick Day's "Players" collection...
Wanna get rid of that pesky confidence?

Welcome to the Playground (Part III): The Aftermath

My head was spinning…

Both figuratively and literally
My body was pleasurably hyper-stimulated
A climatic foreshadowing pulled my legs apart
Made my body tremble
Pushed my moans to a higher frequency...

My head was spinning…
Both figuratively and literally
Surrounded by 360 degrees of sex
My eyes chugged down every arrangement
Swallowing every naked inch of flesh
My brain cells were exploding
My memory was overloaded

But you can’t see everything at once…

I wish my eyes were present to see
The volume…
The distance…
The whiteness of my own seed
Blasting off into an orgasm-induced blindness
Everything faded to black
I came so hard...I slipped into a micro-coma…

     Getting up to find something to clean up with, Max returns with a sock, “Where’d it go?”  Checking both of our bodies, there wasn’t a trace of semen on either of us.  Looking around, I’m reminded of Ben Stiller’s lost seed in There’s Something About Mary.  Finding nada, he laughs, “It must’ve got lost in the crowd.”  Gross, but funny; I hurried up and got dressed before someone returned the favor.
     Although I was completely sober, I felt drunk stumbling out of Queericulum.  My mind couldn’t grasp everything that just occurred.  Bewildered.  Beautiful.  Drowsy.  I never felt so deliciously depleted.  I never doubted my short term memory.  Did that really just happen?
(The Next Day)

     Boarding a flight to San Diego, I noticed something completely different about myself.  It required a great deal of consciousness to stay out of other people’s personal space.  Shuffling down the packed aisle of the airplane, I was walking a tad too close.  I had to keep myself from bumping into people, sliding against them.
     Participating in an orgy obliterated my sense of personal space. I wanted to openly talk to people I didn’t know.  I wanted to touch strangers.  I wanted to rest my hand on the thigh of the cute boy sitting next to me.  I was catching this kind of impulse throughout the entire day.  It actually required effort to not invade the personal boundaries of the public.  Not cool.  (Well, maybe a little cool.)

Have I created a monster?

     Never before has a sex act affected my view of the outside world.  Never before has a sex act skewed my perspective this dramatically.  Sure, my experiences with the world find its way into my bedroom, but never the other way around.  I’m more curious than scared.  I have the will power to stay appropriate until I figure out a balance, but the fact that it requires will power is a cause for concern.
I will definitely do it again
Maybe I’ll alter my participation levels to keep it fresh
Perhaps stay dressed and become a glutton for eye candy?
Maybe I’ll include more friends next time?
There’s a world of possibilities…
I can’t wait for the next Queericulum this summer!

Welcome to the Playground (Part II): Collective Beauty

Clothed conversations co-existed with carnal collisions.

     It was all that I’ve ever dreamed.  A clash of my most curious theories ignited my Saturday night.  Sharing a couch: his naked thighs, punctuated by my head in between, rubbed against neighborly knees, dressed in denim.  His moans mingled well with their heated political debate.  My committed bobbing contrasted with their heads shaking sideways, “No, Obama’s second term is not guaranteed!”

As he pours himself a second helping of tea
I poured a second coat of saliva over my pumping fist
Synchronicity at it’s most fascinating

     “He has a cute, little ass,” one voice says.
     “I know. You call Ryan yet? What’s his ETA?”  References to my naked body, however brief, excited me.  I felt like an exhibitionist, rocking my hips to the rhythm of the Indian electronica.  Voyeuristically, I looked over to another couple following our lead; the contours of his muscular back transfixed me.  Watching him thrust deeply into his partner, I could see his muscles firing off: a beautiful anatomy lesson.

The dance floor was packed
The coffee tables was full of conversation and laughter
We climbed the walls to reach the highest heights of ecstasy

Being a part of this social nexus stimulated me to no end.
A harmony I have yearned to hear for so long.

     Occasionally, someone had to do walk around us to get through the crowded room.  Their touch across my naked backside was refreshing and reaffirming.  Their foreign fingertips would trace the lines of my tattoo in acknowledgement.  The brave explored my body a bit further. In a strange way, I felt edified.

The unity I felt was sublime.

     Looking over the sea of flesh radiating and writhing, I reclaimed my love for humanity.  In this universal exposure, our individual flaws faded away as we took on a collective beauty.  It was a feast for the eyes seeing the different combinations and arrangements love, lust and life can take. 

All the different shapes and speeds
The myriad of shades and styles
Melded into one.

Welcome to the Playground (Part I): This Year's Queericulum

     From the floor, Max complains, “Man, I've been on my feet all day.”

     On the couch, I’m massaging his bare feet in my lap, “Poor Papa,” a kiss connects my lips to the sole of his foot. Never in life have I interacted this way in public. Sitting beside other people on a crowded sofa, sharing elbowroom, I casually gave in to my podophilic proclivities. While massaging, licking and sucking his feet and toes, I also maintained a conversation with my other friends: something about the uselessness of private vehicles in San Francisco.

At “Queericulum”
Social sex acts are appropriate.
In a room called “The Playground”
Fellatio and fellowship goes hand and hand

     “Ooh, I like that! Keep working that foot fetish,” a black man shouts in my direction. Breaking my trance, I thank him with a grin before returning to my favorite dish. “You picked a fine pair of feet there!” Laughing, his attention returns to his own group of friends.
It scared me how natural it felt.
Displaying my most intimate parts took zero adjustment:
No alcohol...No drugs
Solely under the influence of my desires
P.D.A. or public nudity is one thing
But, this is something else…

How did I end up here?

     If God had the balls to anoint me the architect of Heaven: I would design it like this. A wonderful composite of my sweetest, most surreal, dreams, there was dancing, dessert and nudity. A cozy lounge with lots of fucking surface, it was a juicy juxtaposition of partying and penetration. The crowd was so open-minded that the extreme aspects of this gathering became matter of fact.

All I could think was, “I’m not so crazy, after all.”
The second voice chimed in, “Yes, you are.”
“Well, I’m not the only one!”
“You’re right, maybe there’s hope for you, yet.”
“Hopefully, it’s hope and not beautiful bait”

     Max interrupts my mono-dialogue by pressing the ball of his foot between my legs. He’s ready to go deeper. Slowly pulling his pants off from his airborne ankles, his bottomless body spread as dressed people walked by. Something stirred up in me. Something in my mind blossomed as his eight-inch erection flopped in front of pedestrian eyes.

In a moment of brilliance
All facets of interpersonal relations shined in an illustrious unison
My eyes heard The Omni-Chord ring silently

If this is bait, consider me trapped…

Wednesday Night Porn Club (?)

Wouldn’t it be cool?

Studying Kristen Bjorn’s “The Agony of Ecstasy”,
Taking notes in preparation for Wednesday Night porn club…
Agonizing over the display of your profound insight
And your goods…
“Fun facts about Brazilians…check.”
“Pubes neatly trimmed…check.”
"Notebook, external hard drive and magnums…"
"check, check and check."

Wouldn’t it be cool?

A counsel of horny but intellectually adventurous men watching “Black On Boys” flicks
Pointing out the subtle cultural references
Debating why some stereotypes are sexy and harmful
Watching “Short Bus”, fleshing out our interpretations
Imitating the great orgy at the end would also be awesome.
Instead of concluding the meeting with a weak pot luck,
We could get lucky in other ways…

Is it possible?

How far would we get before fidgeting with our belt buckles?
Are men capable of elaborating beyond, “Dude, he’s hot”?
Are men even interested in pornography outside of wanking material?

I’d love to find out…
Maybe it’s an impossible fantasy
Maybe I’m the only nut job who’d actually wait for his hand job
But I’d think it’ll be interesting...Enlightening, even
To deconstruct porn, sex and arousal and discuss the devices therein

Am I the only one who thinks this would be hot?
(For the record, Toddy English thinks the idea is neat!)

My Magical Glass Closet (Part II): Inspiring Repression

     When I find someone attractive, If you aren't paying attention to my briefly diverted attention, you'd miss me.  I steal a glance.  I download what I'm seeing into my photographic memory.  Proportions... Dimensions... Gait...  Quirks...  It feels like tasting a sample of something new.

"What would I do to you?"
"What do you look like naked?"
Simulations of sensations and sounds swirl in my imagination.

     There's so many pretty people out there.  There's so little outlets.  Remaining quiet, my brain constructs a grandiose daydream starring my latest specimen.  By the time I lay down for bed, I have a full-length feature to masterbate to. 

I pray to God, we'll never meet...I'd hate to be disappointed.

     Lately, I've been experiencing a change in scenes where I can be more open about my sexuality.  I have the liberty to say aloud what's on my mind.  Having conversations regarding the sexy man or woman that just walked into the room, I've noticed that it stops there.  No snowballing brainstorms.  No deep-penetrating daydreams.  That's that.  Nothing more.

I am convinced,
a great source of my inspiration comes from my repression.

Think about it...
Repression is the mother of monstrosities.

     On the sexual level, I've learned to limit how much I ejaculate.  For myself, ejaculation (note: I didn't say orgasm) exhausts my creative libido.  So, I like to wait until I have a truly great occasion to spill my seed.  Denial gives me the hunger to devour thoroughly.  Waiting also gives me the patience to compose elaborate sexual scenes. 

The stuff interesting posts are made of.

The above art is from Zack Gold's "Milk"
It captures the passion and frustration
that ultimately fuels me...

Why would I want to leave this to dry on a rag?
Is his chest and neck worthy of my pearl ambition?

My Magical Glass Closet (Part I): Accidental Exhibitionism

One of the most inconvenient things in the world:
(False) Fire Alarms.

     It was 9 p.m. when the sirens went off.  I know nothing's on fire, but I don't want to develop the bad practice of ignoring fire alarms so I grabbed your coat anways.  Shuffling out of our apartment building in our pajamas, me and my neighbors wait for the fireman's thumbs-up to return to the warmth of our homes.
     Standing there talking on my cell phone, I recieved a shocking revelation.  From the ground level, I could see perfectly into my bedroom!  I could see the painting on my wall.  My furniture and bed was clear as day.  I could see everything.  For some reason, I figured no one could see me from the top floor.

I never close my blinds!

     Staring at the comforter set on my bed, which is right next to the window; I started thinking about all of the sex I've had with the entire gated community as my audience.  All of the creative masturbatory sessions...the toys and positions.  Me and my ex-girlfriend should've recieved a standing ovation for our performances.  We did things heterosexuals should never do to each other!  And to think, we were doing this, unknowingly, in the public eye.  (I hope I didn't scare any children.)
     I shook my head at myself as I thought of my most recent sex...the sodomy...the toe sucking...The hour-long oral sessions.  My mind can only begin to think of what opinions were formed.  But, the prospect that I've aroused others in the wake of my explorations gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling.
     The funniest thing about this discovery, THE FUNNIEST, is that I actually considered myself a closeted bisexual.  Anyone with 20/20 on a Wednesday night could see the long, masculine legs dangling from my mouth.  Anyone with an attention span could see my knees and face become neighbors.
     It makes me think.  Is anything really a secret?  Are we getting away with anything?  I'm beginning to think that there's always someone that sees you.  There's always someone that recognizes the truth.  Granted, I stupidly fucked and sucked in front of an open window, but aren't we all?  Are we all guilty of accidental exhibitionism?

I wanted to extend a big warm "Thank You"
to Garcon Stupid!
I couldn't find the pictures to complement my thoughts...
Thanks for have a good eye for art and beauty!

Professional Attire = Bondage Gear?

Tighten that tie, boy
          Yeah, stand up real straight
 better not slouch...

Tailored to perfection
...Your suit is your new spine...
          Shoulders pinned back
          Chin eternally uplifted
          Lose yourself in your Masters' precision
          ...and you'll be greatly rewarded

Stand less than erect
     ...Arrive in garments less than crisp
          .....Allow your whites to become eggshell

...and you will be severely reprimanded...

     At work the other day, I was sitting at my desk when a familiar feeling began to spread across my body.  Sitting perfectly upright, my mind began to replay his coarse voice in my ear, "Stand up straight, boy."  My senses revisited his calloused hand gripping my throat. 

His authority...
My restraint...
The power exchange aroused me on a myriad of levels.

Typing data into my marketing spreadsheet,
My tie was a bit too tight for comfort...the way I like it.

     Flashing back to a scene that involved posture bars, muzzles and arm restraints, I felt a strange similarity within my work clothes.  Due to the tailoring of my suits, I must keep my diagphram empty, stomach in and chest out.  These shoes are only uncomfortable if I step out of line. 
     Punching me in the chest, he barked, "You need this!"  Pinching my nipples with his fingers, he pressed his lips to mine for a brief moment, "You wouldn't have the discipline alone, you need pressure."  He's right.  My blood moves better when it's mixed with a little fear.
     When they came up with professional attire, did they use the pricipals of restriction and discipline?  When they designed the neck tie, did they consider the way it makes you stand differently.  I'm starting to think so.  These cuff links keeps me from resting my wrists on the table.  This suit jacket keep my eyes front and center.  These slacks make my bulge beautiful...

     I can feel him grabbing my crotch too tight for comfort...the way I like it.
"This is what you want."
"You'll endure the name calling...the correction...the punishment,"
"All for the promise of this."
Feeling the warmth of his touch, I understood what he meant. 

I Thought I Was Free...

Is this where the sexy get free?
Or does the freedom make them sexy?

     This Wednesday, I went to a paradigm altering event known as "Estatic Dance".  It would be considered a dance club, if you subtracted the need to impress and establish value.  My fly gear was useless and my dance moves were far too calculated.  The dancing was free form and chaotic.

Some jumped
Others channeled their ancestors
Some just waved their arms in a hippie-like manner
A few got naked

     I thought I was free before this moment.  But I realized that I was chained to the rhythm...I was bound to this need to feel sexy...My two-step made me feel like I had cement shoes on.  Watching them gallop around and make waves from their bodies, I soon got with the program. I felt compelled to jump and skip and make love to the walls.  (Those walls oozed with sexuality.)

They call it "Contact Improv"
I call it...
Dance Sex

Which took them to the floor and back to their feet...

I'm still grappling with all that happened, but I'll be back next week...
Hopefully, I will be able to explain better...
Stay tuned.

In Front of the Story: "Mixed Massages"

     Seeing my debut article posted on SEXIS was a great landmark in my life.  Things are getting real.  It marks the beginning of what I hope to become a lucrative career as a (sex) journalist and author.  I really enjoyed interviewing other massage therapists, shoving my voice recorder in their faces, digging deeper into their forbidden sexual services.  I think I'm drawing closer to my life's purpose.

But, then the unexpected happened...
The attention turn onto myself...

     After recieving my first draft, the publishers wanted to get deeper into my personal experiences.  Knowing that I am a massage therapist, they wanted the dirt on me.  Why am I interested in this story?  Have I ever caved in for cash?  Were there any hard lessons learned? 
     More than anything, I was surprised by the tremendous internal conflict that was happening within me.  The ideas of fabrication and omission made my stomach turn.  If I demanded the raw truth from the sex workers I interviewed, why should I be any different?  When did this become a work of fiction?

Here goes nothing...

     The story features a client that I've had for a couple of years now, I named him "Dave".  At first, he was just a stiff cyclist who needed his legs worked on.  He suffered from hypertension and sever cramping which I was trained to help; however, I wasn't prepared for his secret tensions. 
     I'm not sure what wires are crossed in that man's brain, but he can cum from having his hamstrings massaged.  Working on his glutes send him into overdrive.  There has never been any direct sexual contact; but what do you do when your shiatsu sends him over the top? 
     My home training suggested that I refer him to another therapist.  My Christian upbringing suggested that I should feel bad for what happened.  But I felt none of that.  Matter of fact, the first trace of shame I felt regarding my special client/therapist relationship was writing that article.  The shameless can blush, too.
     In the near future, this blog will feature the audio recordings of my interviews with my good friends, Max and Philipe.  Hopefully, upon listening you'll hear the profound truth within the talk of sex, shame and money.  In a three part series, we will be discussing the merge between massage, sex work and healing.

Check out my debute article for SEXIS:



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