Lately I've been thinking about getting in touch with someone on craigslist to make a pornographic video. I think all the sexual deprivation has led to strange fantasies on my part. I have been thinking more about having sex with old people lately. Old, disgusting, near death people with wrinkly skin, who smell like a combination of baby powder and adult diapers. I want to fuck that. Sort of like where people have scat fetish, I realize that if I did get myself involved in that kind of situation, I will never be judged, and not being judged is always a good thing because at home I'm constantly being judged.
It would ever be so sweeter if I can do an old lady while her husband sits and watches, and I would love to be that man who would show him (and her) how good it could be in bed, bringing her to endless cycles of ecstasy that he has not been, if ever, able to provide her. When I get on top of her, I see leathery skin that's been damaged by decades of sun, freckles, age spots, indicators of an imminent, timely demise of what lies within that shell of a body. And thereupon I cannot care what I would do because whatever I do would not matter. Or maybe I would want to see the pathetic old couple try to get it on, squeezing and tugging their respective puny little organs, with no sign of vitality arriving from their ailing, congested hearts. Is it a necro thing? Is this why people like cold, dead, dried up corpses to possess to their hearts' content?
D and I had sex again a few days ago, right after her period, when she's at the admittedly highest point of her desire every month. She was so beautiful, which made it even more frustrating, because after the inevitable climax, which I tried my best to delay to the detriment of my seminal vesicles, I was in a daze of a combination of nostalgia and longing--it wasn't gonna happen again for a long time, and I wanted to live in the present, immediate consciousness, when the tender, silky smoothness of her vaginal wall still felt indelible and warm in my prickly remembrance, griping me from the inside. I wish it was as easy as being a necrophiliac, if she were dead, if I didn't love her, if we didn't have children together. And yet I don't hate her. I hate myself. I want to be whipped.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
nipple orgasm?
Is it really possible? I have a female co-worker who told me once that she could achieve orgasm by simply stimulating her nipples. I told D the story and she was anything but convinced. This female co-worker is the feisty type. I once watched cable porn with her on a business trip when we shared a room together. Nothing happened. We just laughed at how ridiculous the first person perspective was.
A couple of days ago I became a bit more curious about the concept of nipple orgasm when I was inadvertently flicking my own nipples while watching pornography. D, obliviously, wasn't there. It gave me a strange sensation in that something deep in my pelvis, perhaps my prostate, would be a bit tickled, and I would end up engorged even though I wasn't touching myself. The area around the nipple is a well known endogenous zone, so I wasn't surprised by my experience. Last night, D went to bed early again, and I was left to explore my own body. I read up on nipple orgasm, and a few people reported on the internet that such a thing is possible for men.
So I went outside, took off my shirt, and felt the warm, wet summer night engulfing me. I quietly started to flick my nipples again, both of them, with my index fingers. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation both above and below my waistline, and a little bud of something started to grow between my testicles, deep within my loins. I decided to continue, as that was the trick the web posts seemed to have liked: persistence. Waves and waves of pleasure started to rise, like the tides on a beach under a full moon, rising from between my thighs and submerging my entire upper body. Eventually I reached a point where my sphincter started to contract involuntarily and the body of my penis danced rhythmically. My heart beat with a pounding, flushing pace. My body started to writhe uncontrollably, with my throat making a funny, raspy noise. I felt that time had stopped and I wasn't myself.
"Ah..." I yelled out slowly and softly.
Nothing came out of the orifice. It was certainly an orgasm, but a dry one. Later that night I was able to recapitulate that rising tide and cataclysm a few more times, until I decided that it was too much to handle, and grasped and stroked until I finally discharged my evanescent eros. Was this really the mythological male multiple orgasm?
A couple of days ago I became a bit more curious about the concept of nipple orgasm when I was inadvertently flicking my own nipples while watching pornography. D, obliviously, wasn't there. It gave me a strange sensation in that something deep in my pelvis, perhaps my prostate, would be a bit tickled, and I would end up engorged even though I wasn't touching myself. The area around the nipple is a well known endogenous zone, so I wasn't surprised by my experience. Last night, D went to bed early again, and I was left to explore my own body. I read up on nipple orgasm, and a few people reported on the internet that such a thing is possible for men.
So I went outside, took off my shirt, and felt the warm, wet summer night engulfing me. I quietly started to flick my nipples again, both of them, with my index fingers. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation both above and below my waistline, and a little bud of something started to grow between my testicles, deep within my loins. I decided to continue, as that was the trick the web posts seemed to have liked: persistence. Waves and waves of pleasure started to rise, like the tides on a beach under a full moon, rising from between my thighs and submerging my entire upper body. Eventually I reached a point where my sphincter started to contract involuntarily and the body of my penis danced rhythmically. My heart beat with a pounding, flushing pace. My body started to writhe uncontrollably, with my throat making a funny, raspy noise. I felt that time had stopped and I wasn't myself.
"Ah..." I yelled out slowly and softly.
Nothing came out of the orifice. It was certainly an orgasm, but a dry one. Later that night I was able to recapitulate that rising tide and cataclysm a few more times, until I decided that it was too much to handle, and grasped and stroked until I finally discharged my evanescent eros. Was this really the mythological male multiple orgasm?
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
a drunk tryst relived
I find that my tolerance has increased dramatically lately. It used to be that I can drink a couple of whiskeys and I get comfortably tipsy, and these days I would need a solid five shots to get buzzed, and even then it wears off quickly. Last night was not exceptional, when I finally had the opportunity to spend some time to get away from D, even though all I ever so desperately wanted to do is to get closer to her.
I went to a neighborhood bar with Aaron and Christopher. Aaron, being the family man that he clearly didn't want to be, decided to be the DD and only had a couple of drinks. Christopher and I started doing shots at 8:30PM and while we tried to play a drinking game over the monster truck show, it was really more or less to drown each of us in our own miseries. He revealed to me a few days ago that lately he had been having problems getting it up, and his wife had been nothing if not scathing, especially considering that he put up the front of a 20 year old frat boy all day long. He related an episode to me where his wife told him, in clear contempt, "looks like I'm not gonna get any again tonight?" "I told her to fuck off, and she just said whatever and we went to bed. Whatever is right." Gulp.
I was in Aaron's car, and my head was spinning. I felt the inevitable desire to retch, and that desire triggered a flood of memory of D, when we first met, when this happened on a regular basis. I remember being disoriented with intoxication, of the alcohol, of her scent, of her meditative, contemplatively sexy stance disseminating in the air. I remember her hand on the inner part of my thigh, slowly wriggling her finger up my shorts. As I recalled the details of that encounter I felt myself becoming uncontrollably aroused, and I turned myself away from Aaron in the front seat toward the window. I remembered the cotton sheets of her cramped little apartment, and her smooth, young, lean navel as I slowly kissed it, ejaculating fiercely into the latex condom. I remembered recovering thirty minutes later, my tongue intertwined with hers, then entering her from behind as she shyly requested a break to take a shower. I cruelly denied her request as I ruthlessly penetrated her over and over again until the waves of pleasure came over the second time, absorbing whatever the leftover essence there was. The second orgasm was always different, as you felt the desperation and effort of your own sphincter, as the remaining pleasure became coalesced, bit by bit, with a not minute amount of scornful, dull ache, sitting quietly in the back quarters of the perineum. But it was inescapable.
Aaron's car stopped. It was my house. It's time to face another sleepless and sexless night.
I went to a neighborhood bar with Aaron and Christopher. Aaron, being the family man that he clearly didn't want to be, decided to be the DD and only had a couple of drinks. Christopher and I started doing shots at 8:30PM and while we tried to play a drinking game over the monster truck show, it was really more or less to drown each of us in our own miseries. He revealed to me a few days ago that lately he had been having problems getting it up, and his wife had been nothing if not scathing, especially considering that he put up the front of a 20 year old frat boy all day long. He related an episode to me where his wife told him, in clear contempt, "looks like I'm not gonna get any again tonight?" "I told her to fuck off, and she just said whatever and we went to bed. Whatever is right." Gulp.
I was in Aaron's car, and my head was spinning. I felt the inevitable desire to retch, and that desire triggered a flood of memory of D, when we first met, when this happened on a regular basis. I remember being disoriented with intoxication, of the alcohol, of her scent, of her meditative, contemplatively sexy stance disseminating in the air. I remember her hand on the inner part of my thigh, slowly wriggling her finger up my shorts. As I recalled the details of that encounter I felt myself becoming uncontrollably aroused, and I turned myself away from Aaron in the front seat toward the window. I remembered the cotton sheets of her cramped little apartment, and her smooth, young, lean navel as I slowly kissed it, ejaculating fiercely into the latex condom. I remembered recovering thirty minutes later, my tongue intertwined with hers, then entering her from behind as she shyly requested a break to take a shower. I cruelly denied her request as I ruthlessly penetrated her over and over again until the waves of pleasure came over the second time, absorbing whatever the leftover essence there was. The second orgasm was always different, as you felt the desperation and effort of your own sphincter, as the remaining pleasure became coalesced, bit by bit, with a not minute amount of scornful, dull ache, sitting quietly in the back quarters of the perineum. But it was inescapable.
Aaron's car stopped. It was my house. It's time to face another sleepless and sexless night.
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