Skill Seekers and Fantasy Finders (…gets Fetishized…) (For the first part of this succession, click here.) …Ow I wince inwardly, gently relieving the pressure from my ribs in gesturing for you to remove your forearm as you apologize profusely. “It’s okay. Just try to be aware of every part of my body that you connect read more..
…Ow I wince inwardly, gently relieving the pressure from my ribs in gesturing for you to remove your forearm as you apologize profusely. “It’s okay. Just try to be aware of every part of my body that you connect with,” I say, still not knowing how to approach this in a manner that allows for reassurance of you, my newcomer, and the potential for pleasure for myself. Pain assuaged, and after requisite laughter, I then train you on how not to scrape my meat with your teeth, which turns into a larger lesson in the art of shared awareness in this solitary any-time as we amalgamate desire with dexterity, appropriating aspiration with an over-all arrival in a free-flow of giving… and getting… in reverent revelry.
Anxiety-prone and porn-conforming, you arrived at my apartment, principally, an aspirant. “I need some tricks up my sleeve to please my partners,” you proclaimed an hour prior in the hopes of confidently realizing imaginings on our own terms in comparison with scenarios you’ve subscribed to. Now you determine the depth of our initial session with a width of wishes and interests as we resume a hot happening that found you receiving a deep tissue massage one moment, then miraculously materializing on my marriage bed – while the wife is away – the next, as you break from the information overload of the fast-paced day-to-day to slow down in a safe space with me to process the stuff of fantasy, piece by piece, and sort through what matters as you flip and flatten me, attempting to flatter me with unfitting angles and uttered frippery as you initially flop in finding untried ways of seeking as a human being – with me – as opposed to a man racing into doing an alternative rundown and having at an added reenactment. So we pause the scene, fluidly scattering the dots to fasten them freely – with focus – as you experience your potential through the eyes of novelty to rediscover beauty in recovering old truths as you trace the slippery slope of vulnerability to accept guidance in slapping my business class – at first sloppily, then with this hoped-for mastery.
You rang me up, accomplishment-minded, to arrange an appointment to indulge in role-play – citing ample examples of what you’d bashed the bishop to on your MacBook Air, and had planned to perform accordingly on my derrière. So you stretch your mischievous stepson across your lap afore topping my hand-printed humps – but before you fuck this young buck, you divulge long-held-back hesitancies. And I relay that whether you’re a doctor, attorney, or football coach, what you’re actually seeking is a touchdown instant – a fetishized fix to an existential angst in an era of erroneous tidbits that has us mistaking bullet-pointed and listicled info for a wealth of wisdom as we fail to identify those fundamental things underneath what we want, and how to have at them.
Together we re-form the forbidden as you get your head around handiness, and we elicit the illicit (albeit alliteratively): “I wanna be primitive – primed for a powerful takeover of a hairy, heating hole – either one will do!” “You’re my counselor at church camp! God, I needed that chubbie under my bum so bad!” “Bend over, man, and let me bugger your backend through a fence in a back street in pre-surveillance Gotham!” Erratically specified, we explore taboos to shine a light on the key role real risk plays in a life really grabbed by seemingly original, so-called sinful, and supposedly prohibited balls as we surrender to synchronous expansiveness!
Then you become cocky, and I get carried away again as, lip-locked, we – you in white socks and me in a sports jock – knock boots next to your discarded dress shirt and my ridiculous schoolboy shorts. Then the professorially mighty prick is substituted by the schoolmaster’s tight slit – and just as your Boy can be Daddy, you can be my little lad in a role-reversal that rehearses our wholeness.
Or perhaps I’m turned on in switching positions, so I flick off the effort and lay back, letting you grovel over my broner and bollocks for a spell, stripping you of all that power you’d assumed you possessed… “Bitch.” And to remind you of who you are, I report on the others I’ve used and been abused by today. “There was the African-American who demanded he be an escaped slave to exert supremacy over my pink plantation poon,” I recount. “Now suck that sausage, slow – Then there’s that British bloke with the dope flat who dropped a wad on my stiff striptease,” I recall. “Keep snackin’ on that tallywhacker, slut.” And you render me repressed – incompetent at expressing my puritanical apprehension. “Aw, come on up here and let me kiss those expert lips.”
I explain that fetishes are seldom abnormal or absurd – and, as one can only expect, are hardly ever socially acceptable. The reverse of perverse, prurient penchants are far from irrational passions – they are, indeed, quite reasonable, and intensely interesting to investigate. And each acted-upon erotic preoccupation is an externalized meeting between a hungered-for freedom and harbored misgivings. We handle queries through queer-handling, making fetishized love to create harmony with one another and within ourselves. So if Santa came down your chimney, ate your cookies and drank your milk, then gave your faggoty ass nothing but a lump of coal growing up – now, all grown-up, you can make that dirty old queen in yuletide drag unload his sack of goodies to a wank and some good nookie. Maybe the behaved boy gets rewarded, or the disobedient one. Your virtue can easily be your vice, or vice-versa. Saint Nicholas honors you this time, and every stocking stuffer is another sexual awakening.
Yes, you’d inquired whether you should come dressed as a high school teacher, an international pilot, or one of New York’s finest, and I cherry-picked a pulling over of my racy, bear bait ass with your flashing cherry topper specially to cross that thin blue line and have the heat put on me thick. Wearing yourself cocked and loaded, you uniformly tear me a new reality before your cock explodes all over my face. A rage ride of tantric tantrums, we employ a lusty frustration to get to fulfillment, and I go from browbeaten to being boosted by you, a true trooper, as you stop and seize my junk, ceasing at the hood to ransack my trunk, horned up in my middle on the side of the highway. “You’re only guilty of speeding, honkey,” you state, yet my naughty bits are shamefaced on the spot as I declare, “I’ve never gone this fast in the past, officer!” But you just give my hog and prison purse a hard look in a rigid bargain of my uncivil assets being forfeited forward to my suspects getting roughed up.
Having endured the predictably appropriate stroking of a masseur, solely to hanker for mystery and allure… Ignored by the overworked, under-concerned doctor, yearning for unaffected recognition and an integrative resolution… Proven stupid by a teacher or coach, only to earn his approval and even win his appreciation… From overlooked to uplifted, belittled to being enlarged by the brutal indifference of societal uniformity, you don’t cop out of confronting our collective fears as a partner and I don the apparel of Bobbies with the threat of two Billy clubs. I chime (in an unrehearsed rhyme): “You unjustly dove into the treasure trove of my pleasure cove, and now it’s your turn!”
And the take away of having taken one another is that we got it on to get on with it – a golden opportunity to trigger respective instances of disrespect in a duality of silver-bulleted mutuality. To compete to out-prowess so as to empower each other to cooperate, we use the services of you, a lowly lot lizard. “Slowly, now, not so hasty,” I assert in the front seat at the truck stop – or with him, on a filthy mattress pad at the alpha hotel – simply to ask, “Don’t you know the law of the land?” as you friskily taste his pig prick. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, sheriffs – I’m just the lay of the land!” you chortle between porked chokes. Lording over you, swording your sheath, I jerk your washed-up jaw off my Johnson and squeeze a steaming load on your cheek and, satiated, shout, “Stick ‘em up and spread ‘em!”
We meddle with the unsettling to get to belonging, objectifying to disarm one another to rectify subjective issues and respective social ills in an arresting set-up of busted nuts. We have flip-flopped unfairness so that authority is on our side. We have turned indifference around to demonstrate our ability to be participants in our own lives. And you go from arm’s length to an overpowering embrace, as you support me in figuring it all out for myself with a humbly offered suggestion. “I wouldn’t even have considered that!” I exclaim. “Thank you…”
And as I eke out next week’s entry, I’m geeking out on their latest gamble: Porn As Therapy. Perhaps I should inquire about a potential partnering?
Get your mind blown there, but leave the bone for me! ☺
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