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

          ...you 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...

Slippery

Sloppy

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:

  Mixed Massages

J-Porn Favorites: "GayHound Express"

Imagine This

     You're waiting at the bus stop, running late for work...yet again.  Working on your "family emergency" bit, the bus pulls up much earlier than expected.  Sweet!  You would've had a hard time explaining how you acquired a third, dead grandmother anyways.  Rushing on-board, you pay your fare and squeeze your way through the packed bus, "It must be a home game today, everyone and their-fucking-daddy's on this bus."

     Avoiding eye contact with the pervy fat man staring at you, for some reason you check to see if your wallet's still in your back pocket.  You think, "They should really limit how many people they let board at one time.  This guy's breathing on my neck."  The bus is so crowded, you can't even turnover to see who keeps grabbing your ass. 

    

Suddenly, you hear, "Yeah..."

...whispered directly into your ear...

He grabs a fistful of your hair

There isn't enough room to fight

That's when everyone on the bus proceeds to tear your clothes off

     "GayHound Express: The Molester's Bus," is the SCARIEST piece of porn, I've ever seen.  The scariest part is that my dick gets hard while watching these cute Japanese men struggle unsuccessfully.  They can't escape being fondled and stripped.  They're eventually fellated and given forced rim jobs...I've seen other gay pornography feature rape fantasy, but this one is painful to watch!  I keep thinking, to myself, "The poor boy just wants to get to work."

The worst/best part is the walk of shame after he's dropped off.

He's trying to grapple with what just happened...

He came three times against his will...

His nipples are so sore...

He hopes his boss buys his excuse...

(For the record, I am aware that NOT judging me is impossible at this point)