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

CLICK HERE TO PREVIEW "My Lonely Mornings"

Fetish #6

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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.

Microphilia

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"

Stille

     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

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