I don’t think there will ever be a time where I’ll stop growing and evolving. Where I will reach the limit of my growth and can say ‘well, I’m definitely into all of these things and kinks, there’s nothing else’.
Though that’s sometimes frustrating, especially when someone asks ‘well, what do you identify as?’ And I have to stumble on my words to say I’m a mix of things, it’s also a thing of beauty. Because there will always be something brand new to discover.
For example, there’s a huge part of me that identifies with the 19th century gentleman and this unspoken undercurrent of Dominance and submission. Jane Eyre, apart from being a terrific read in general, was deeply erotic for me.
And I identify with this gentleman because a big part that I’m drawn to is regulation. Polite wording like ‘Pardon me’ instead of ‘huh?’, standing up straight – etiquette like that – it speaks to me.
And there’s so many different nuances to something like that. Chin up, beck straight, hands to the side, hands behind your back, ask for permission to go out with your girlfriends, all these different things that branch off to different concepts and regulations and ways in which the relationship can evolve or adapt.
But then aside from this strict gentleman, or the 1950’s household hybrid of that gentleman, there are the other aspects of my personality that I’ve discovered along the way, the Daddy and the Master.
The Daddy aspect has always been with me, I think, since my early twenties. And as I got older and more at ease with myself, it has been more prominent and refined. I’m sure if I co wrote a blog with my lady, she could vouch for times it comes out – say, if she’s snacking before dinner and I tell her not to, she can hear it in my voice. Or if she’s ill but staying up late. Of if I want to read to her or be by her side when she colours.
Recently, I’ve felt a different side bubble to the surface that bears similar traits to a Master. This crosses over with the 19th century gentleman, as the concept of setting rules and regulations in a M/s environment with many different concepts also at play intrigues me. But it’s also not quite the dynamic that fits my current relationship, as my kitten and I sit somewhere between the M/s and Daddy / LG concepts.
It’s weird to explain because the mind shifts at any given moment and borrows traits from established roles. So it’s a mix.
And as such, I think I will always be finding out new things about my mind. Maybe I’ll change. Maybe this relationship will change. The How’s and the Why’s can be pondered all night, and this thought is lengthy enough.
Bottom line is that I’m always growing and learning and finding new ways to live and play and explore and that’s beautiful.
How about you, stranger? Are you a mix?
In a second, my mind flashes – and I wonder about their shape, their tastes, their soul, the dark corners of their mind?
Is it a matter of perversion? Am I THAT guy? The sleaze? Or am I just of a sexual nature, of a curious nature, pondering.
A woman behind the counter smiles, and I think about what that smile might look like years ago. And does she smile, not for me, but for herself when she is alone?
A dad sternly tells his child to sit still, his wife and he exchange glances. What is their life like away from their kids, behind closed doors?
It isn’t a matter of being a pervert, I don’t think. I just think it’s a heightened sense of thinking. I’ve always had an overactive imagination. I’ve always thought too much and too deeply.
People’s lives fascinate me. It’s something I love about this blog – hearing from people, getting to know them. Checking my email is exciting for me, though of late, it’s been empty, routinely cleaned. Chat to me? I’m sure I have a marble of knowledge to pass on. Maybe.
I always feel guilty about thinking too deeply. Like it’s wrong to dig deep, to think about the raw nature of a person. To open that door.
I’m not gawking at women left right and centre, it’s more that I watch everybody. Women, men, children, families, the middle aged woman behind the counter with the sad smile. Maybe it’s the writer in me?
I was looking at Facebook earlier. A post of a science fiction movie came my way, the image featured a woman, nude, knees bent hiding her breasts and vagina, and my mind skipped to the intensely erotic:
What if she was held in a pod full of water, breathing through a tube connected from the device to her mouth.
What if there were machines, pulling at her legs, testing her desire, exploiting it. Like she was a pet to an unseen scientist.
Does my mind always go to the sexual? Sometimes. My wandering mind tends to cross over into my high sex drive. But I guess what it comes down to is that I think too deeply.
And what I wanted to write, as the night heads into the witching hour, was that it’s okay to think deeply, about the people around you, about their minds, dreams, fears, relationships, desires and more.
I wouldn’t advise going too far down the rabbit hole – unless you’ve got a guide to help you come back to Earth. But is it something you should hide from? Try to repress?
No. Absolutely not.
Note: This is a piece I like to call part of my ‘portrait’ series, in which I focus on setting, character and emotion. Here I focus on 19 year old Zoe and I wrote her world in one sitting just now, completely absorbed by its beauty. By far, this is one of my favourite pieces because I think it’s personal in many respects. I really hope you enjoy it.
For a moment, she stood there, gobsmacked at the sudden turn of events.
Downstairs she could hear her parents arguing, her mum defending Zoe’s honor while her dad arguing against her mum for not defending his.
Suddenly Zoe felt like a stupid little girl. She looked down at her faded yellow batman t shirt and grunted in frustration.
None of it made sense anymore, not her batman shirt or her her yellow shorties she had on or her silly pixie hair cut, with sandy colour and messiness.
She felt stupid, like a little girl lost in a supermarket and wondering what to do.
Zoe slid down to her floor and let out a sigh, just as she heard the screeching of a chair down below. Daddy had stormed off.
Her mum had called out to him but he was already out the door.
This was all her fault. She started this.
She knew better than to question her daddy on religion but something came over her when he raised the issue of sexuality.
A celebrity came out, it made the news He said.
It shouldn’t have, he said. There’s no place for that sort of thing in the news, it’s not right. It’s not natural.
Zoe, who was stirring her peas in her gravy, suddenly thought of Sharon Bridges’ 17th just a few months ago.
It was an image she thought of often when she was alone, not just because it was fun and she had laughed harder than she ever had, but because of one incident in particular.
As the party wound down and most, if not all people, were passing out or leaving for greener pastures at other parties, Zoe was looking for the bathroom. She’d ask Sharon herself, but she had disappeared, as had her other friends, into the void that was drunkenness. Not Zoe, she was pacing herself. Although by this point in time, she was well on her way to becoming tipsy.
Zoe had found Sharon eventually, she opened one door, which turned out to be the wrong door evidently.
Sharon was on top of a faceless girl, her head buried in this girl’s cunt while the girl below her ate her out vigorously.
In the corner was another girl, Unknown to Zoe and watching intently, her hand down her panties.
The three of them were drunk and lost in a primal daze of lust, the only instinct being the basic animal desire to fuck and to come.
When they heard the door click and open, they didn’t freeze or become startle, rather they gazed at who it was with a vague curiosity.
When they saw it was Zoe, they giggled innocently, their faces wet with spit and arousal.
But Zoe was startled. She closed the door before any of them could speak a word, and on wobbly legs she wandered to her tent she had set up for the evening out the back and went to crash there for the night.
In the morning, Sharon and her friends hadn’t raised it and Zoe didn’t want to go there, so she had her breakfast, complimentary orange juice and burnt toast from Sharon, and left for home.
The image of the girls, however, never left her.
It lingered with her that whole afternoon, had woken her up that night with her sweet shaven lips pulsating as it dripped.
She had masturbated to it more than once in the following months, but still couldn’t make any sense of why. Was she bi? A lesbian? She didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Maybe the image was just appealing on a purely objective level? But did that still make her bi?
So when her dad raised the female celebrity coming out, she openly questioned him.
When he said, looking her square in the eyes and saying that this was the divine creator’s word, she raised the issue of love, how it was universal. Somewhere along her impassioned speech, she had raised her voice.
Her dad kept saying the usual – it wasn’t right, it’s not natural, we weren’t designed for that. And when her dad told her she was being silly, she took personal offence.
It was all downhill from there on, as Zoe’s dad kept shutting her down. Kept reiterating that one point: it’s not natural.
Zoe left for her room in a huff and in her room in a huff is where she now sat, thinking how silly she had been, silly to be arguing with her dad, silly to start something. Sharon Bridges was in her mind again, her mouth devouring that faceless girl’s cunt.
With a groan, she tore off her singlet top and threw it to the ground.
Outside, thunder rumbled and Oscar, their French bulldog, complained at the thunder.
Something possessed Zoe then, she took the singlet in her hands and tried to tear it.
It didn’t make any sense to her, she felt silly wearing it, she felt silly tearing it.
There she was, a girl still at home, still wearing kids things, trying to tear her singlet while her small breasts smacked against her chest and each other. She hated her breasts and her nipples. The sudden stream of rage entering her mind drove her to tear harder.
The singlet tore down the middle and she left it at that, tossing her aside.
More thunder echoed around her as she kicked off her shorties, tossing them across the room.
They went skidding underneath her wardrobe in the corner.
Zoe was completely nude now, her chest heaving along, her eyes darting around the room. She wasn’t right, she wasn’t natural, she was a silly little girl. A silly little girl going no where. A silly little girl working at an office answering the phones trying to play grown up. What an idiot.
She heard her daddy start the family car, saw the lights glide across her windows as he left up the track, disappearing into the thunder.
No one knew where he went when he got into a rage, but mum had told her one time that he told her in a rare moment that he visits a small pub out the back roads somewhere.
Zoe was still, kneeling in her room, listening to the car disappear, the thunder booming, Oscar barking.
Her skin felt the summer heat, it was warming up her arm as she knelt.
She rose in one swift movement and moved across her room, opening the door opposite her that led out onto the verandah outside.
Zoe stood in the doorway and listened for the rain. It came in small pitter-patter’s first, then more heavily.
On the tin roof above her the rain played a gentle concerto, swift and at ease.
Zoe moved to the railing of the verandah and ran her hand song the rough wood. She stood there a moment watching her hand slide along the panel, wondering what everything meant – her tastes, the past few months, where she was going in life, is she a lesbian?
It was true that she hadn’t been able to get Sharon Bridges out of her mind. But the reasons why this was so was unknown to her, much as she tried to make sense of it all.
For if she were interested in women, what would that mean? She’d have to reset her whole perception on her life, on what family meant to her, marriage too. She didn’t even know if she wanted to get married but the option, as a straight person, was there.
As the rain belted down and somewhere amongst the noise the cicadas sang, nineteen year old Zoe stood naked on her Verandah with her arms outstretched to touch the rain.
Pretty soon she would hop the ledge and go run in the rain behind the house. Pretty soon, her mum would knock on her door and get no answer. Pretty soon, Zoe would enjoy the rain stinging every part of her body and see that as cleansing herself in some way – for what she didn’t know.
But for now, Zoe stood naked watching the droplets of rain smack on her open palm.
This one’s just a short one, born out of the notion of looking at people and thinking of what kind of life they lead. I went for intimate and short but sweet. Let me know how I went.
Picture this, if you will.
A blonde woman arrives home dressed in her work uniform, a dull grey top with black suit pants.
With a sigh, she throws down her purse, a simple pink thing, and collapses on the bed.
She is 24 and lives with her mother. She is single. She works Monday-Friday, nine to five, at a shoe shop. And this afternoon, she is exhausted.
Her room features walls decorated by a collection of album covers from her favourite artist – Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Cream – it was her dad that led her to fall in love with the rock and roll of the sixties and seventies.
The woman runs a hand through her long blonde hair and registers that it needs a cut. She sighs. Something else to keep track of across the week.
With that, she reaches down and slips out of her black pants.
Her legs, slender and pale, stretch across the floor, sliding against the fabric of the carpet.
She glances down at her underwear – plain bright green boylegs – and hooks her fingers around the elastic and pulls them off.
It falls to the floor twisted and crumpled.
From there, she unbuttons her top. That falls to the floor as well.
She’s wearing a black bra. It’s nothing fancy but it’s the kind of thing that becomes fancy in its plainness. Pretty soon that falls off as well, tumbling onto her blouse on the floor.
The blonde woman stretches back completely naked and feels the ceiling fan skim air down to her small breasts.
A lifetime ago, she would have hated her breasts – absolutely hated them.
Now, she thinks they’re the best thing about her.
She couldn’t describe why, perhaps it was just age that led her to see the appeal within herself.
With that, she fell into a peaceful nap.
..And I don’t really know why.
Maybe it’s linked to the idea that my parents were repressed. Or I was taught it’s a big no no so I lived in a repressed state for my life. But anytime I undress here in my own place as an adult, I feel thrilled.
I just stripped off to go crawl into bed. I’m tired, I’ll have a nap. But the sheets on my skin, the gentle breeze on my cock. It’s electrifying.
And is there any greater Joy? Probably. Maybe. But seriously, I don’t know why it is that I feel super charged. Maybe I’m just a nudist, maybe I just like nudity.
But it’s more than that, because I sleep nude, I write nude. Its a part of me in ways maybe I can’t recognise. Or maybe I’m reading too into it.
I mean I do it all the time, it should be second nature. So why is it still thrilling?
The only answer I can come up with is that I’m a highly sensitive, highly sexual person. So perhaps that’s why. Because I’m always switched on, hard and ready for anything.
What say you, ladies and gents? Anyone share my highly sensitive, highly sexual mindset? Anyone reading in bed or wherever right now naked and comfortable?
I take you by the leash and lead you out to the frozen country side. You’re wearing nothing but my leather jacket I’ve put on for the day. You think we are going for a brisk walk but what you don’t know is that I have an exercise planned for you.
The tips of the trees are covered in frost. The wind bites at your neck. Freezes your feet. Turns your nipples to glass. You feel compelled to be led by me.
Until I ask you to undress.
You watch me closely. Perhaps you think I jest? Well, I do not. You begin to stammer. To squeak. You knew I was a sadist but you never expected this.
My orders do not change. Even my protection doesn’t entice you to undress. Frostbite is mentioned. But even my word that you will be okay doesn’t amount to much.
My dear Snow White. My dear Ice queen. Undress for me. Show me why it is you love winter, why you insist on exploring the winter wonderland every year.
When you fail to be moved by my trust, I tear off your jacket and push you down to your knees. The leash jingles as you fall. You whimper as you can feel the ice around your knees but I can see that look in your eyes, I know it well. You dare not move.
Dear Snow, I was only going to make you come once for me in your natural habitat. Now, you will work that freshly shaven cunt of yours until I am pleased by your actions.
From my pocket, I reveal your favourite toy – your thick purple vib.
But you shake your head and refuse, the cold is too much. You can’t concentrate in these conditions, you say. Very well.
I force your face into the snow and with my free hand, trace the purple vib down your back to your pale ass. You’re begging to be freed but it’s more than the exercise now, it’s the lesson.
You shiver at the touch of the purple vib as it trails down the curves of your ass. You beg it to me – not here, not now. But you will do as I say.
I’m surprised when I reach your lips. You’re warm and wet. Inviting. As a stranger taking shelter from this very weather, I slid the vib in gently, letting you take it in. Like your pure mouth takes in my cock of a night.
You know what’s funny about you, snow? You’re a devil. You’re an angel around the public, but some things you want whispered in your ear, your desire for my cock -or the salty taste of my come – it’s just so naughty. I watch as you take the purple vib, how your face melts from discontent to something else. It starts off as a faint thing, that pleasure. Then it’s all over you, evident by the goosebumps trailing up your body. Suddenly your squirm meets back into the vib as I slip it back into you. Suddenly your cries and begs become soft moans.
Your juices drip onto snow beneath you, melting patches away. You try to speak but I hush you. If you’re going to ask for my cock, you can forget it. You gave yourself to me for a reason and you couldn’t trust that reason. Now, you’re going to be taught to trust. To trust that I have your body in mind when I am using it as an instrument.
You start to shake visibly and I know you are coming. You always were sensitive, Snow. It never took you long. Lucky for us, we still have enough time before I have to run you a hot bath.
When you reach your orgasm, I don’t slow down. You beg me to release you from my grasp, but this only serves for me to pull your hair. No.
No, Snow. I am going to sit here and work this vib until you are sore and trembling and on the verge of something beyond anything we’ve ever taken you to before. You will trust me.
Scrolling through my news, I came across this bit of information and you can colour me perplexed.
I’ve always been pretty open about my nudity throughout my life so far and never really understood why people turn their noses up at it. Granted, you can’t walk in to your local supermarket butt naked but when it comes to stripping, say, beaches of its optional nudity status? That I don’t understand.
In the article I linked to, a reason for doing away with the nudity option was because population is booming and the beach in question is a popular beach.
What if a family want to take their children to a beach and the closest one available is the one with clothing optional? Well, so be it. Nudity is nothing to be frowned upon and children might find it helpful to their growth. It is indeed a tricky situation but I know I grew up with a lot of thoughts about how nudity was ‘gross’ or doing something nude was wrong or filthy and I don’t particularly think that’s a healthy thing for children to grow up with.
Granted, everyone are entitled to their way of thinking. I kind of wish I could challenge their thought process and open their minds — or at least challenge the years and years of inbuilt they received from their parents.
Then there’s the idea of pushing those in the community that embrace their nudity away from the community because of their lifestyle. Kind of like society pushing those away from the ‘socially respectable’ people because they like the breeze on their skin and the sensuality and freedom that comes with swimming nude. Why are these people being isolated because they prefer to go nude? I don’t understand why it is such a big deal in people’s minds. Certainly exposure to nude folk might help the development of, say, the children and teenagers that will be at this particular beach? And if we want to talk about sexual predators, I’m sure those despicable folk are around regardless of places being clothing optional.
So should people cover up? I don’t think so. It’s sort of like swearing – we apply meaning to these words and make them offensive. Fuck is just a word, like ‘whatever’ or ‘Queer’. But we made it offensive. Faggot was a pile of sticks until we adopted it for homosexuals and now nudity is seen as nothing but foul and indecent and inappropriate, when it is natural and beautiful.
But this is it. This is my opinion. A mother of three might think differently about the exposure to her family and all the power to her. I just don’t understand why this is so. But I won’t take up any more of your time, my dear reader. I will leave you with this beautiful picture.