The Fetish Game

Anyone that knows me knows:

I am very entertained by the new, fetishist site

FETLIFE

     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.

Tightlacing

      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.

Gnarly

     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.

Heretic/Minister

Carrier/Healer

Ignoramus/Omniscient

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.

Geometry.

Botany.

Sexuality.

Humanity.

Honarvar fuses this all gracefully.

View his provocative collection:

HERE

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:

ISLAND