Bad Sex: (Ep. 3) "Some Like it Rough"

     LOGO's new television series "Bad Sex" has garnered by attention.  The show features a sex therapist's work as he helps people with dysfunctional sexual issues.  Each episode focuses on a single client as (s)he participates in group and individual therapy.  I found the first two episodes to be nothing short of thought provoking.  Peeling back the layers of their sexual behaviors, the sex "specialist", Chris Donaghue, helps to reveal the deeper emotional issues they were masking with sex.  Good TV.
     The third episode rubbed me wrong.  They turned the camera to Erin, "A rough sex/love addict".  Choking.  Cropping.  Fetish.  She admits, "Sex has to be rough for her to enjoy it."  I found myself waiting for the bad part.
     Her therapy with Chris and the other clients showed that Erin had some major intimacy issues.  Habitually, her relationships consist of sex alone. No conversation.  No cuddling.  No connection.  The major problems with her love life were flagrant.  However, what offended me was their need to continue to emphasize her kinky proclivities.  Slicing in scenes of her purchasing sex toys and buying fetish gear.  From what I seen from the show, I believe her issues were independent of her kink.  Yet, the directors continued to draw this connection between her fetish and her fear of intimacy.
     Her two-year relationship with a married man was the problem, not her urge to be tied up.  Her ability to stay in a relationship with a man who fucks her and then sleeps on the couch was the problem, not the whips and chains occupying her toy box.  Maybe I would've appreciated it if Chris assured Erin, "It's okay if you like to be choked."  I think this show had an opportunity to be kink-positive and progressive, but squandered it on being sensationalist.

I think its possible to have your emotional/spiritual needs met in a kinky relationship.

  I think psychological health can co-exist with fetish.

What do you guys think about this episode?

Tags: Gay Video & Lesbian Movies, Logo: Fierce TV

Quantum Touch: Cups

     It's interesting, what can be conjured from a lover during a scene.  Bending.  Striking.  Digging.  An adult can dissolve into a crying child.  A human being can transform into an animal.  A body, of flesh and blood, can open its gates and become the ocean.

It was a Friday morning...

She surprised me...

     Placing the first suction cup against her back, I turned the knob.  She snaps, "Ouch! Can't you do it any slower?"  Massaging her back with oil, kneading her skin and muscles, I warm her up before trying again.  Turning the knob slower this time, I watched the plastic case fill with her flesh.  Hissing, "Fuck," she slams her fist against the ottoman.

Her mouth may have been filled with curses.

Her fists may have been filled with her comforter.

But, the scent of her cunt filling the air

was all the permission I needed to apply the second cup.

     Twisting the knob clockwise, her speech was quick and punctual, "Shit! Shit! Shit!"  If I listened more than sniffed, I'd stop.  But, my nostrils filled with the musk of a masochist.  My instincts took over and continued to systematically work her body.
     Taking my time, I strategically fastened cup after cup, riddling her backside with several of these bizarre attachments.  Sucking.  Pulling.  Tightening.  It's interesting, what can be conjured from a lover during a scene.  After the third cup grasped at the flesh of her ass, something changed.  Suddenly, like a gust of wind, silence made its presence known: sacred... still... golden...
     Someone 5' 5" can tower over the tallest of men.  Soft curves and moist valleys can match the hardness of diamonds.  It was Friday morning and she revealed herself a goddess.  I swear, her humming voice made the temperature rise in Oakland that day.  All I could do was watch and praise the miracle before me.

"Zen" by Forbidden Light (Featuring Boistrous)

Drunken Thought #2

Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I'm waiting for an opportunity to tell my story.  Before the scab... Before the scar tissue... Before the blemish...  No one has ever asked me what happened in the first place.  Before the broken skin... Before the spilled blood... Before the ambulance ride...
     It's been a very difficult story to keep to myself.  But, no one asks, "How did you get that x-long gash from here-to-there?"  Instead, I'm told to "apply cocoa butter to reverse the hyper-pigmentation."  As if, healing lies in the reverse of the trauma's symptoms.  As if, I'd be free if the scar blended with my skin-tone.  As if, the disappearance of my scar will make me forget his forceful hands in my hair.  Before telling me, "Black skin is prone to darken where a barrier is breached,"  please ask if I'm proud to see evidence of a threat null and void.
     I've been longing to say 'yes' for so long.  "YES!"  I've wondered how that would sound from my lips to my ears. How would "YES" sound reverberating throughout the air?  "YES, I've been in scuffles."  "YES, I've fought for my life."  "YES, I'm still here, in spite of the sharp edge held firmly at my face."  However, I've longed to say "YES" without adding my name to the long list of victims.

Why would I want to cosmetically remove a badge of honor?

 

Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I've been equally redundant to call upon my truth.  I would hate to have all-that-I-am reduced to 'fucked up', so I stay silent.  Waiting...  Longing...  Furiously masturbating to the thought of someone giving a damn enough to ask, "Where'd this come from?"  Pointing to the scar between my eyebrows.
    Is it a rude question to ask?  Is it inappropriate to inspect my body and inquire about your findings?  Probably.  But, I find it equally rude to discuss the matter on Oprah's coach; in an attempt to promote my latest project.  I guess this story will die with me...or, it'll splatter from lips when I'm desperate for some attention.  Which isn't today.

Black Spark: Blackstreet

What is this, that drives me out on his limb?

     At some point, "I love you" didn't do it for me anymore.  No matter how I said it: in the heights of passion or in the depth of emotion, It didn't completely translate how I felt.  No matter how much I said it: the rattling of a dated declaration didn't do my feelings justice.  "Love" was too shallow of a term to define the nature of our connection.
     Looking into his eyes, "Cum inside of me," felt right.  Holding his pumping hips in my hands, "Cum inside of me," became an opening statement before a sacrifice.  I wanted him to know: I am devoted.  What's a word to describe my need to put my life into his hands?  To use risk as evidence?

The intensity,

building with every stroke,

makes me wish I had a womb to capture this moment.

       With my legs drawn over his bouncing shoulders, our rhythms drive me mad.  The thirst for his every drop develops into a compulsion.  Regardless of what sprouted from his seed, whether a jolt of life or a slow death, "Cum inside of me!"  I wanted him to inhabit me.
     His face falls open.  His muscles clings to my body.  Pumping in clinging spurts, we began to bond in a new way.  Spraying.  Churning.  Soaking.  Whether to build a new life or to weather the same sickness, I cast my life into the winds of his orgasm.
     As his body collapses onto mine, I am filled with the unknown.  Questions swell in my head.  Possibilities play themselves out.  What did I just do?  There is so much pending... So much to be determined...  What's a word to describe my desire to die, if he's going to?

"Cum inside of me," felt right.

Black Spark: Chapter 1.5

"Elsewhere a villain in born.

 He will take your power...

 ...up his ass.

 ...down his throat.

 Now, he has stolen mine: I lost focus.

 I must find him and take his load." - Black Spark

 

     I kept nodding off at work today.  So damn tired from staying up all night masturbating.  Beautiful Boys.  Dusty Basements.  Lasers.  Lust.  Abandoned Dance Floors.  I couldn't stop watching.  These films activated something deep within me, I couldn't lift my eyes from the Black Spark.

Everything I've ever wanted from pornography:

Artistic

Experimental

Sensual

Irresponsibly Truthful

     After my fourth load, my orgasms weren't wet anymore.  But, like the characters in the films, I couldn't stop touching myself.  Stimulated on every front, my hands and cock were inseparable. Poetic lines scrolled across succulent close-ups.  The way their secrets sparkled kept my thighs open. The music kept me awake long enough to squeeze out the fifth.

I'm so damn tired...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: The Process

     Weeks later, I am still processing my time at the Folsom Street Fair this year.  What is it about Folsom that makes me feel like I'm in my element?  Of which spirits did I fellowship?  I think I may have tasted a morsel of something significant.  Something clicked.  I feel compelled to pursue this harmony, discovering what it means for my life's purpose.
     Whether it was a cold breeze or warmth from the afternoon Sun, it felt so good on my bare hide.  Exposing myself in public...  Playing without fear of judgement...  It felt good to be surrounded by a community of people doing the same thing.

Its painful to think about this happening only once a year.

      I think I am realizing how much I need this.  Sex and Sun needs to continue sharing the atmosphere.  Public displays of fetish needs to be met with smiles and the lighting up of eyes.  Kinksters should go home with the thought in their head, "I am not alone."  What can I do to usher this kind of environment into reality?

That's where I always get stuck
I don't know.

     I think "Journals of an Intelsexual" shines a light on sex-positivity, broadening people's perception on sexuality and fetish; but what's next?  I am racking my brain trying to figure out my next steps.  I've taken a few shots into the dark, submitting applications to open positions within the sex industry and reaching out to kindred spirits.  I feel this to be a tremendous turning point in my life, both professional and personal.

All I can do is pray

This passion is weighing on my heart for a purpose

I await to see what surfaces

Photos courtesy of Boisterous & Tommysole

Folsom Street Fair 2011: Chord (Part II)

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I’d start with me and him naked.  On all fours.  Overlapping on the motel room’s floor, we were in unison.  With her legs wrapped around my neck, her heels sat on my back as he serviced her feet.  Slurping.  Moaning.  Flicking my tongue over her clitoris, I can feel his warm mouth alternating between her feet and my back.  Taking turns licking and lapping.

Us: Gnawing and nibbling.

Her: Moaning and giggling.

     I love the warmth of their limbs wrapping around me.  Embracing me from behind, his hands roams all over my body as she fills his mouth.  Our services are synchronized.  Our thirsts siphoned  from the same well.

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I'd start the next scene with her on her back.  Putting myself on top.  Her throat and teeth quivers around my cock.  Plunging his fingers inside of her, he feeds me her pussy from his palm.  Spreading her lips further apart, I rhythmically dart my tongue directly on her clit.  Each orgasm makes her body shake and rock; I love the momentum.  I love the way he sucks her juices from my beard and how our tongues battle for the last drop.  I love kissing him. 

Two heads are better than one.

Four hands are better than two.

Three lovers are better
than any fantasy I could've mustered on my own.

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I'd start with poetic thoughts of dreams coming true.  His tongue rakes across the sole of my left foot.  Her mouth seals around the toes of my right foot.  Heaven materializes before my eyes.  Infinite hands sliding across my skin.  Tongues slithering and darting inside of me.  Heads rising and falling in my lap.  I've prayed for a moment like this... Being worshiped by two people at once.  Fireworks exploding in my body!  A network of pleasure tearing me apart!  For an hour, I attended Heaven.
     Its his turn to stare at the ceiling.  She's on all fours.  I'm kneeling behind her.  We're going to fuck on his face.  She can barely maintain her composure; as I stroke deep inside of her, his mouth tugs on her cunt from beneath.  Every few strokes, I'll remove my erection from her and give it to him to suck clean.  It was a beautiful sight, to see his bearded face respond some greedily.  His hands traveled to my hips, groping my ass...then to her hips and her breasts.  Every few strokes, there was another mess for him to clean up.

To be continued...