Kneading Knots, Needing Knob (or, “Hold me down and set me free!”)

Skill Seekers and Fantasy Finders (Parts of the Whole) (Part one starts here.) Hardly over five years ago, betwixt a year of desertion in the sub-Saharan desert and many more to come of global vagabondage, I discovered erotic massage during a five-month “layover” in Chicago. Gripped by black dick, it was in consuming an inclined read more..

Skill Seekers and Fantasy Finders (Parts of the Whole)

(Part one starts here.)

Hardly over five years ago, betwixt a year of desertion in the sub-Saharan desert and many more to come of global vagabondage, I discovered erotic massage during a five-month “layover” in Chicago. Gripped by black dick, it was in consuming an inclined gentleman’s particularly gargantuan one at the end of our appointed hour that something within gave way and the coveted dong continued going down. It had hit that trusted wall just to thrust itself into one full-throated moment in time that found me as muted as I was inspirited as I embarked upon an epic epoch as a kind of countercultural cocksucker.

From there it was full-throttle as I prepared to take a plane to Spain to apply my newfangled esophageal aptitude on Mediterranean boners on the black market as I re-realized a roughly forgotten fantasy of being a full-on pleasure-provider.

In spring of 2010’s watershed of Middle-Western suspension I shunned social stigma, empowered and upended in this unprofessional interlude, only to recognize my ability to live out what I’d jerked off to all those years prior in closing my eyes and reliving adventures in off-and-on, unofficial escorting in college. With a newfound love for shoved shaft, and an appetite for desire’s amplification, I caressed flesh and kneaded knots to tip myself over – into – titillating sensual prospect as I was about to get paid while guiding a knob down my throat before whipping it out for an explosive finale that guaranteed a tip!

Those newly-placed to born-and-raised Chicagoans were wowed by a tongue both belligerent and gentle, not to mention the bottomlessness of this wholly bottom’s exploratory hole. After squeezing their wangs, balls deep, with the base of my gorge – simply to lick the tip – I’d go from mouth-full to pulling a kissed dick, all savvily salivated, to twist to their satiation so I could taste the tang!

But the build-up was in alleviating back after back with my elbows on their beds while the head of my flaccid-to-fully-roused cack grazed their cracks. And I was pleased to be teasing taboo upon taboo, understanding that any indecency had been in tradition’s trepidations. Gaining skills while giving thrills, he and I and he and I… were complementary counterpoints to undeterred dreams as I amateurishly plunged into an experienced expansiveness in sucking off all sorts of studs’ exposed cocks of varied colors and contours. Most had scrimped and saved for my self-pimped slaving, yet for some I was deep-gulletting gagged-for pennies out of even deeper pockets in guileless gluttony!

Yes, it was at inexpert, strapped 27 that I deviated from specialization in the social services and international education – gobsmacked by the seemingly Goddamned, barely an authority in my exuberance for evolution – to get to who I am and who a given man can be inside the bounds of my body.

And all these lifetimes later this shrieked ”EUREKA!” of synchronous accumulation of suppressed passion becomes one more mannish example of the bottom line of an assembled search – yours and mine – from bodywork on the massage table to working him over on a mattress pad, in coaching on my couch and listening in between the lines of a conversation across your counter: It never ceases to startle me that I am the embodiment of a man’s potentiality in going from famine to fulfillment as I play my part in reimagining our mutual myths. And in an unduly emotional, unruly cerebral state, I somehow guide men back into their bodies, heads cleared and hearts full, mindful of the individuals and the instants we inhabit – and that inhabit us.

You know, it wasn’t until moving to Midtown West this past autumn, settling in a specific place to personally, unprecedentedly take off, that I developed Impostor Syndrome. My mind reeled with the knowledge that I had arrived to establish myself without ever having so much as attended a massage course. As repressed as the next guy, and still sexually inhibited, I at last grasped that I had been turning up to spiritual healing in being turned on by fleshly feeling in the years preceding. And in suppressing my gag reflex for subepiglottal expression – moment by moment, man to man, country after country – I had fumbled and stumbled into finding myself in the flow.

And here, and now, it has more readily occurred to me that this growing into immersive immensities through showing up to the present – steadily, again and again – is what a culture of collapsing specialization and distracted attention commands.

I came to New York as much a player as a coach with this familiar, preferred diversity – of men and moments – as you and they allow me, in various ways, to get a hard-on over presence… and prurience.

HOMEWORK

So, Men Alive, as fellow meaning seekers and sensation finders, just as I rephrase the old to frame the new in these blog entries, and approach novel encounters by employing tried-and-true techniques, I encourage you to use any excuse to freely and flagrantly exclaim, “Hold me down and set me free!”

Skills are helpful insofar as they harbor a sense of hope, and fantasies are favorable solely when the hypothetical enhances one’s lust for life. Likewise, the ways in which you relate to reality in recollecting and recreating a fantasy can find you skillfully surrendering to the moment at hand – and the man in your mouth! Mmm…

Many of my clients, and all of us in myriad respects, are sexually constrictive due to our refusal to be receptive – in general, in life. For the anomalous we are so enamored of to become our norm, we must form ourselves in a positioning of receptiveness. I believe this necessitates getting lost in gratitude, and relishingly receiving the details of the day-to-day.

So your “homework” is, this instant, to receive the details at hand in an act of mouthed gratitude. To the lilac tree outside your kitchen window: “Thank you! I welcome you!” Regarding the compliment your pesky coworker finally offers you: “Thanks! That means so much!” And for the stiffy squirting on your tongue: ”Galalala!” (Be open to it! And for it.) But before that joystick gets juiced, remember: “Hold me down and set me free!”

And if you require a little practice in receptivity – in revitalizing the old or trying something altogether new – I’m here to face fuck and high five you. ☺

(Click here to partake of part four.)