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Fixations Framed to Fantasize Freely (or, "Make it fit, slave.")

SKILL SEEKERS and FANTASY FINDERS (…Instead of Falling…) (For the first part of this succession, click here.) (For the second part, on uniformed uniformity, click here.) (For the third part, on porno boredom, click here.) …to the magic making of sadomasochism and the balanced dance of a dominance dependent upon submission. While not personally taken read more..


SKILL SEEKERS and FANTASY FINDERS (…Instead of Falling…)


(For the first part of this succession, click here.)
(For the second part, on uniformed uniformity, click here.)
(For the third part, on porno boredom, click here.)

…to the magic making of sadomasochism and the balanced dance of a dominance dependent upon submission. While not personally taken in by leather subculture, as an accepted submissive who plays bossy bottom in my high-rise hideaway seeking of finder’s keepers, I intuitively connect with subs who at times substitute me as their dom top as we create fresh forms of preference a world away from the workaday, emphasizing eroticism to some half-assed headhunting bit of how’s-your-father? Banished from some proverbial paradise, we certainly feed on meat, spreading mercy – one onto the other – cleansing each brother of the so-called iniquity of self-inquiry as a brandished hide gets handled and tanned.


And you find yourself enslaved to me, sniffing my schmeckel through my shorts, trading up free agency and lustily trusting me to responsibly cede you to a responsive self. And as I hold you down, I heatedly unpack your possessions and heave them to the right, leaving words as if tattooed on surrendered flesh, rendering you left with the rest – apart from an everyday of productivity and the domesticity of participation. I grant you your worth as we transfer this farsightedness secretly – soundlessly – in your widening to my girth. Touching your inward parts, I teach you to participate in my greatness as you witness yourself – owned – in my wide mirrors on out to Lady Liberty in the harbor as I bone you, rubbing out my mannish hardihood as I fill up another rubber in you.


Handing over this requisite restriction of myself and my kin, I then submerge my autonomy to be bullied and submit my anatomy to belittlement as you ravish me, parting my legs to see me in ecstasy as I subscribe to a tribal loyalty and lavishing, knowing that I worship you – alone – as you enlarge yourself to embody me entirely. Ecstatic while you’re at it, stripping and one-upping me in a one-off twosome of equal dependency – re-binding me and tearing away the bondage of religious and state authority to violently, silently receive me with homo discipline to signify harmony, breaking me of any impression of separateness as we depend on one to the other as singular realities in a global discipleship. And you spank of what I’ve hankered for as you climb the ranks from corporal punishment in yanking yourself out of my skilled mouth as I willingly let you drill me, in charge like a sergeant, until you anoint me at the crossway of control and devotion. You turn your countenance from my assumed blamefulness and unashamedly put me out as you pull me into our smoldering wholeness.


My devoted doppelganger, you vice squad me gladly – cuffed and collared, roughed and readied – a maddened passenger on your pair of wheels, with your bobby dangler stationed crosswise to drop a just wad on my visage until I embed my lieutenant’s helmet in the depth of your throat as you choke to listlessness as I check you twice to be sure naughty is nice as we explore your paternal panic in disrupting the weight of this dilly-dallying with a Kris Kringled willy-nilliness that testifies to how absurd it is that we observe ourselves as anything but intersected as your projected seed plants itself on my suppressed innocence.


You open my lips so my tongue sings your praise, and you raise my face to make atonement on the mattress for what we lack in valor when half-awake in real life. Here, now, we self-salvage the feminine in this virile vision to get to being wholly alive. You claim me – yea, you say my surname aloud! – and we lay occupied questions to rest, as you name each piece of me, from this animal impulse to Adam’s pulsating part.


Indentured to desire, and stripped of distress, as an unrepentant Jesus figure fucking Christ you cry “Damn it to hell!” to experience yourself, contemplatively, seizing your own power as opposed to greedily gathering it from without. Rather, I present my who-boy dilly and you provide your deifyingly kept hole, as in active acceptance, you allow us access to ourselves. You serve me lovingly, hungrily. You are Mark as you make me to redeem you – Matthew if I ask you to be. You are a Johnny-come-lately as you belatedly bathe me – a Luke who greets me with loving warmth to the East. Arms outstretched, encompassed by the company of all queer men, you bless me on the bed that I sleep on, hopping on to hold my holy hands to lay me down to a folded feat of rocked shock. For Pete’s sake! – you seek escape in the low-hanging harvest in the riddled middle of the tree of me that stands erect, stones rolled into me to attest to a handheld resurrection of an ageless agony in this everlasting unraveling.


We formalize every fixation we are humbled by to impart the naked truth of their normality. Transfixed by our hang-ups, we go down in inward upheaval, ascending as the truest essence of life – yea, waystations in a room of arrested aesthetic! – to erotic and existential relief as you fracture me to rupture rapturous knowledge of all things just to blunder upon plundering love. YES! – this bitten wisdom leading you to live in LOVE as it quiets you in our coupling. You beat each specific aspect of me and berate the fantasy so as to relate to another as you respond to yourself. We know ourselves in knowing nothing – beyond the biblical sense to an incestuous brothership of self and sort.


In acknowledging that the world will not conform to our cravings – that we can only save ourselves through a frustrated, faggish effusiveness to arrive at passionate beingness – we nurture social fibs to this good-natured, bed-ridden ribbing, awakening to this whipped wonderment of our woundedness in confessing our worthiness. Yes, one to the other, we suffer pain to gain the pleasure of concession with the pressure off to get at an immeasurable purposefulness as we employ our hardships in a fraternity of healing. Our young bollocks once placed upon society’s altar, we now elevate ourselves from a faltering fate to an altered state that emancipates us from promulgated emasculation. As civilization seeks to castrate us, we now grow a pair in goaded goodness – our gayness balls deep in rapacious anuses. We subject ourselves to a maintained subjugation to regain our good names and natures.


I envision any blindness to my kind in this epoch of preoccupations and interruptions as extinguished in darkness and seclusion, disconnected from day-to-day distractions to a nocturnal knowledge of brawn and brain as mended – blending inclinations with bodily limitations. On the edge of time, in a space of edged glee, I suffer, you suffer, we suffer to release – briefly relieved, coming again – passionately! – to grieve a timeworn, lovelorn discord to receive original unification as you shower me golden in an olden showing of binding friendship and transgressions washed. You tether me, then lather me in lube, forcing me in leathered-to-undressed leisure to manifest fists. A wise buddy first butting me with a beer can cock, you display the length of your arm to deliver me to shaped wickedness as our mothers once conceived us without shortcomings. A virgin to vigor, I birth in observance – and my master seems to say “Make it fit, slave” as I accept him voluntarily, solitary to all I’ve ever known, containing duality in this mutuality of mastered rapture.


Command me with reverence, in ritual – in initiation. Behold me as separate from you as I lick your boots. In tender, measured torment, mirror the chaos of the cosmos and the dominion of deities. You are the law as your hand lands in repetitive rule on my rear. You order me, torture me – slapping my cheeks as you grease me in the sling, as I border euphoria. Suspended in sublime compliance, you lord over me in the violent state of a body sating itself as the blood rushes to my head as, with each thrust, you size me up in inserting your shaft in a seismic shifting of consciousness as I enter a trance. I but touch on transcendence. A trance, a trance – transcendence!


Defenseless, I’ve nothing to fear as I lose my ego in loosened beingness, forgoing the thrill in the threat of possession to finding fearlessness in frailty. Oh, my soul! Oh, my soul! Inner tensions and outer pressures are exorcised in this purification of myself on the margins and at the crossroads of life and death in this sanctified contravention of an increasingly sanitized societal landscape. It’s in my mind! It’s in my mind! I approach that peace that passes all understanding, past cultural trappings, strapped in midair, derriere slapped – abandon demanded.


An internal turbulence hushes to nothingness. Body of Christ. Blood of Christ. I stake my claim at the periphery of uninformed uniformity in the epiphanous center of all in a mystical fission of a macabre revision of revelation from this really really real revealing of what had simply been humanly hidden in tales of immorality. In the world. Not of the world. The Fall is a fiction, the Garden is as forever as we are immortal, and we were never severed from the Source. All is here, all along. I am the Thomas who drinks from your mouth – and you will become like me, and we will become like him – I am that I am that I AM… Now. Now. NOW!


The spirit speaks when moved in silence and within stillness. It’s above my head, it’s above my head. From the noise of castigations past to my castrated voice, there is no need of repentance in the blessed present. My heart aches, my heart aches. Born into exile, I am saved here. Head to the heart, head to the heart. I eat and am eaten. The head breaks, the head breaks. Life sustains life. Oh, Heart! Oh, Heart! That vale of tears, the veil is torn, and from the womb to the tomb of ascending through space and time to Hereness and Nowness as All I partake of this knowledge of myself and my place amongst You. Oooh! Instead of falling, punished, from grace…


When will we stop co-opting “respectability” and, in its place, cooperate with a self-determined form of respect – for self and sort? Nothing assuages socially-fueled angst quite like reflection.

There’s so much I continue to be frightened of. When will I exonerate myself of external condemnations and commit myself fully to the stuff of spirit? How can I best destroy old identities and create new intents for honoring what came before while agreeing to what is to come?

Your homework is to list your recurring misgivings, and write about them. Then talk them out with someone you trust. Be with them – carve out a time to let them tantrum. Then determine what grand thing you most want to align yourself with, and frame a daily practice to concede to just that, versus accommodating qualms and conceits. And if you require someone to model multiversal miraculousness with you, I’m here. ☺

(To proceed to a series-inspired poetic composition, click here.)

Add a Response 10 thoughts on “Fixations Framed to Fantasize Freely (or, “Make it fit, slave.”)

  1. Ufff! What a magnificent ride we’ve had this week! Your blog is great, not only for what it intrinsically says but the ruminating process that generates afterwards. Sadomasochism has been beyond the scope of my sexual desires until now. But, have I been missing anything? Ignorance, fear, perhaps both, or even more? Now, curiosity appears on the horizon, and curiosity is the mother of all explorations. Moreover, this week’s entry has made me reflect on how much pleasure-love is missed in our submission to prejudice and pride. Prejudice imposed upon us by the society, just to make one conform with its hypocrite facade of decency. And pride, excessively enhanced by our narcissistic fear of being burnt, like butterflies, fascinated with vivid flames. Thus, we should be bold and passionate to attain true liberation and pay -dearly, if necessary- for our transgressions from the norm. After all, gay people are rebels by antonomasia. Yes, I know: easy to say……
    Your last two paragraphs are sublime. I read and reread them to get invaded with that distilled impetuosity that emanates from it. They propels us to reach, -yes, Adam you can guess the word- new open “skies” of human realization. Now you have brought a new offspring into existence from the heart, guts, experience, pain, and spirit, enjoy the pleasure of your accomplishment in the certitude that it is a great piece.

    • Yes, Gil – conforming to that hypocritical facade of decency… let’s stop! We are rebels by Mother Nature, and truth-tellers. Let’s seek and find ways that resonate with us. Adam

  2. I have not look at your blog in a long time and this is surprising! Your language is sexy and spiritual. Your voice in the podcast is calm and warm. You are special Adam.

    • Thank you, Fadi. 🙂 I envision you with your dictionary getting an advanced course in vocabularly – and possibility. You are special as well, dear man. A big hug from the Big Apple… Adam

  3. This reads like a short story from the inside out and back again. I feel like I’ve just been put through the wringer, in, uh, a nice way, Sir.

    But what an amazing layering of ideas, beliefs, apostasies, declarations, all adding up to an insistence on getting real by getting fucked every which way from here to tomorrow, and I think you’re saying (demanding?) that desire can exist simultaneously with fear and loathing. And then, if we move through it, we can become born again, as wonderful, sexually affirmative and expansive beings:

    “In acknowledging that the world will not conform to our cravings – that we can only save ourselves through a frustrated, faggish effusiveness to arrive at passionate beingness – we nurture social fibs to this good-natured, bed-ridden ribbing, awakening. . .”

    Your writing sometimes feels trance inducing, and never more so than now, and it feels here, too, like a good hard, pounding fuck, though of course one begets the other as you point out:

    “you size me up in inserting your shaft in a seismic shifting of consciousness as I enter a trance.”

    I think that your style here matches quite amazingly the substance. Bravo!

    I have this image of you having finished this blog, exhausted, satiated, falling across your bed, dripping with sweat and tears. And smiling.

    Thank-you for taking me on this one hell of a ride.

    • To get back in the Garden you’ve got to pass through those two angelically held, blazing swords – desire on the one side, and fear on the other – my fellow flaming force of faggotry. 😉 Can we touch on each to implode the two? I’m thrilled that you felt the trance-inducing pull, Chris – which is why I got stuck until I read something so simple on Thursday: “When you write, tell the truth.” The truth is, I’m not there! Yet it’s HERE! So I relapsed into caffeine addiction, had Allegri’s majestic “Miserere” (castrated voices… wash my transgressions…) playing on a loop, and had at it – and at it – and at it! GOD! This blog – this week – made my skin break out, my throat scratch, and my mind swoon… Heart aching, broken. I slept ten hours with vivid visions of future acceptance. Thanks for being along for the ride – always! Let’s push, let’s cave in… let’s be. Adam


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