Den of Dark Iniquities

No poetry or prose tonight, kids. Just red wine inspired babblings. You are not allowed to complain. Blogging used to be a large part of my journey, into deeper thresholds of self awareness, and even further with creative whiteboarding and rubber milling. Feedback and stuff.

Clearly, I stepped back from the intensive outlet for awhile. Any number of reasons, none of them particularly relevant this evening.

Are there many lonely hearts out in the world? I admit it's been a long time since I've taken a look. Seems that technology makes it pretty easy to find what you're looking for, or at least something to fill in the time while you're still looking.

I used to spend an ... inordinate ... amount of time on alt, whereby I flexed my vocabulary skills while entertaining my cock. Met some interesting peoples, online at least (they have a large blogging community, go figure), and for awhile I amassed what could only be described as a certain degree of popularity.

This is not something I suffer from here, by the way. (In case it wasn't obvious.)

Slut and I are doing as well as can be expected for lovers who are 3000 miles apart, and I am working on maintaining my health and writing a novel of orcs and elves and dwarves and the creation of a new world and ... blogging is not the outlet it once was, for me.

Part of being Dominant, in my experience, is the ability to create an emotional vacuum, a bubble of sorts, so that the needs of the submissive are met and focused upon. This sounds terribly cold and calculating, but it's not necessarily that.

Some of the precepts of BDSM, that which involve torture or masochism, can be cruel. Intentionally so. So, you need to be able to give that its place. And you need to be able to remember that beneath the sadism, you must be a gentle, caring, loving and attentive boyfriend/lover/husband.

Personally, I enjoy the duplicity of letting my inner Beast get his "playtime" and still being able to have a loyal and sexy and attentive woman in my life to talk about such things as George R.R. Martin, or House, or cuddling in front of the fire.

I digress. It's the wine.

I am inclined to state the obvious, because I think in the heat of passion, of needs or wants fulfilled, of - to be frank - holes getting filled, both literally and figuratively, we are able to lose sight of a bigger picture, of goals, of things that we ought should be doing with our life.

I recently was contacted by a woman who I used to chat with. Strikingly attractive woman, make no mistake. I used to chat with a few, last year - but this one is not likely to read my blog.

Naturally, I told Slut of this contact, and we spent a few minutes talking about it. I spoke mildly favorably of the woman, because I am a gentleman, and I did not see the purpose of calling the girl a psychotic wanton whore (I am no fool. It would reflect poorly on myself if I was chatting some crazy bitch up a year ago, eh?)

Slut's response, as modest as she is, was that she was still quite a catch, because she's loyal and loving - and I cut her off.

While my Slut *is* quite a catch, make no mistake, I did not settle for the girl who was most like to deal with my particular eccentricties.

I did not settle.

I do not settle.

While I am indeed a modest man with modest means living a terribly modest life, I possess a degree of self awareness and confidence that allows me access to very beautiful and capable and intelligent women. As arrogant as it sounds, this has been the case for most of my life. My status as a single man for however many years was a result of not accepting myself for who I am.

When you are self aware and in a position to - choose - as I am, it is my experience that most people choose the flavor of the day, the topic of the moment, or that which is the path of least resistance and most immediate satisfaction.

People, inherently, are self interested.

There was a time when that girl would have caused me to turn my head, to think of how badly I once wanted to fuck her - but ultimately, it could never be.

But, let's just say that you are surrounded with a myriad of choices - millions, even - because, in some ways, you are.

Slut continues to be my first choice for any number of reasons, some of them relatively shallow, like... she's fuckin' hot, yo.

Most of the women that I talked to were able, to some degree, to make me feel better about myself.

And that was good. Nice. Pleasant. Often arousing. Feeling sexy is good.

I think that's the easiest thing to appeal to, once mutual attraction is established.

The thing is, months later, I'm a better person, because of Slut. I've come to realizations about myself, and have modified my behavior (just a tad), to be more understanding, caring, open, gentle in some respect and utterly ravenous and/or cruel in others.

These are things that she brings out in me. Being with her - makes - me a better person.

I'm happier with who I am today than who I was 6 months ago, despite the changes in health, chance and circumstance.

I watch other couples, the ones who last, and the ones who shouldn't be together at all. I grieve for some, to be honest. Not out of some "Fox and the Grapes" notion of who someone should be with... I just notice that they're not ... BETTER... for having dedicated themselves to that relationship.

So, over a glass of red wine, and a giant massive wall of text, I've come to the conclusion that the advice I would give to those seeking love and finding sex, or vice versa (that happens, too), is that you should find someone

... who makes you a better person. Who helps you grow as a human being.

Because there's never going to be any shortage of someones to satisfy your immediate needs. Ever.

So, whatever. Ignore, dismiss, employ as suits you.

Thank you, Slut, for helping me - however unwittingly - become a better man, because of you.

Scholars and warriors, paupers and princes, all do offer limitations upon the measurable muck of meanings within the mind - there is knowledge, and there is the wisdom gained from experience.

I do not care. I possess no great quanity of either.

Yet...

I know people. I know women. I know a woman.

What once was mysterious - remains mysterious. I allow it. I enjoy it. I savor the intrigue, the curiousity, the feminine veils, willowy and silken sails floating above an ocean of life yet to live, reflected to near transparency by the sun, moon and stars.

Understanding the mysteries of the world makes them no less enjoyable; I would argue that the proper course is to remove the logic from your mind, and savor the sensation of the experience.

Even now, despite distance or indifference, she traces words with mental fingertips. Invite, deny what passion has longed for. It does not matter.

I know it's there.

No matter chance or circumstance, reason or madness, logic or lust, nothing - but nothing - would be preferential to my lips upon her flesh. She knows it.

I know that she knows it. She knows that I know. That is knowledge.

Arms, wrist, hands, fingertips - link, chain and manacles to imprison her impetuosity and self control, to become the gaoler of her flesh, to force desire's submission into that which is all but inevitable.

Women always hold the key to carnality, the permission, the allowance of bodies to become one - and generally do not want this sort of responsibility.

Take. Not in such a way as to cross understandings, not the horror of violent crime, per se.

But close. Silence now. Through paper walls and vellum veils, some reckoned necessity of modern society's demands upon a woman - it is much too much. Such lies, such spell weavings, all to find what we both know it is that you want.

Commitment. Not in the legal sense of papers and attorneys, but in the strength of my cock slamming into the soft, nubile flesh of your form. That my hungers do not waver, they are not motivated by moment or mood, by chance and circumstance.

This is what she wants. It is always what she wants. Not rules, regulations, showmanship for machismo, not lofty words and bitter disappointments - none of that matters.

She wants to forget the claims and games, and feel the heart let loose behind her stiffened nipple, her feline form arching and swaying beneath the push and pull of mind numbing lust, fevered ferocious passion blowing off steams and condensating in trickles of sweat, mixed with blood, mixed with her cunt's nectar, drank from a tall glass of obscene and impious prayers.

At no other moment, will she ever be more of a woman.

And at no other time, am I more of a man.

It is known. That is knowledge.

I suffer from Crohn's Disease. It's not sexy, I manage it myself (no doc, no meds), so I find little reason to write about it.

But every now and again, it flares up, and it's not unlike a boxing match. The older I get, the harder the fights are to rebound from.

During crisis, I tend to rely heavily upon my critical thinking skills. I'm not a panicker. I always fight, and never flee. Strange thing, really, as the cure is in the opposite: you do not think away an ulcer, you relax and the ulcer goes away.

It becomes the most pressing thing in my life, my degree of pain, my level of comfort, above and beyond anything else - the survival instinct kicks in, and the survival instinct is selfish by nature.

*

There may be those who suffer from chronic "I think too much, and it may be the death of me."

A woman is brought up by her mother, taught the value of nurturing, tender loving care, and all that good stuff. Men, when falling ill, remember their mothers, and tend to want that sort of thing.

"I'm so sorry, is there anything I can do?"

I'm just not that sort of guy.

Reader's Digest will tell you that laughter is the best medicine.

They're close.

The remedy that cures all ills, that sets pain aside, that lessens the worries of the day, that blots out the mundane - the thing that makes us forget what we think about so much, so often, spinning our wheels and webs until we suffocate ourselves in our strands and spokes of all that must be done -

Is Sex.

When I need to be mothered, I'll call my mother. (I almost did this week, I felt so horribly rotten.)

From you, Slut?

Fuck me. Suck me. Press your lips to every part of my naked body, tell me how good I taste, how good I look to you, how wet you are.

Drive me to madness and distraction with your sweet, succulent, juicy cunt and slide that naked, perfect mound onto my stiff cock and stroke me til I'm blind, deaf and stupid.

Dance beneath a dusty light in a smoky room, wearing nothing but a smile. Do it for me. Lust for me when I am vulnerable and weak and frail. Raise the beast from within, the beast that cowers in a corner when the pain drives me mad.

Help me find the balance again. The man you love and lust for lies within, but he sometimes is mortal, doesn't have all the answers, he suffers like any other human. It is through this experience, that he or I can find compassion, so it must be tolerated.

But, we certainly don't have to be a slave to it. We don't even have to acknowledge it beyond a whisper.

Turn around, let me see the muscled curves of the back of your legs, and the entrance to your forbidden treasure. Taunt me, tempt me, beg me, want me.

I will find the strength. I will be motivated.

Be my lustful muse and drive me wild with the passion we cling to when things are well and the bills are paid and the world spins properly on its axis.

Bring me to life. Resuscitate me with your hardened nipples in my mouth, your lips parted just so. Break my fever with the heat of your naked flesh pressed against mine.

My slut presents me with her wet, ready, willing, open holes and the ache in my cock makes me forget everything - the only pain I feel is the throbbing pulse of desire that clears my mind and sends a deep thrum into my heart.

Boom.

It's easy to have lust and passion when the world's alright.

The proper Slut will be a Slut when any other woman would shirk her duty.

And that is why my cock only gets hard for her.

Time, what? Heals all wounds? Changes everything? Track enough philosophy and you'll find that time is traced to every episode of animal event, emotion or circumstance.

I am simply a cog in that wheel. As you, and the people who will and will not read this. I am not magically exempt from the rules of life.

Time was spent. Together. In the presence of Slut. 24/7. This accounts for two weeks of absence. I love to write, but I love living that much more.

Time. I was single for a long time. I expected to remain single for a long time to come. I did not mind it, no more than I minded any one of a number of life's little hurdles. "They" say, "You can't be single forever. Eventually you'll find someone. Just give it time." I scoffed.

Yet, I am not exempt from the rules of time.

I do have a funny relationship with life, and it has made me a bit of a cynic. I did not expect to ever fall in love again, I did not expect to find happiness with another woman, I did not expect to find someone so completely perfect - for me. I am rarely wrong, and life had to make sure I was wrong about that. The funny part is that my Slut is on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

Having been born into a family of European immigrants - moving to Europe has been as much a fantasy of mine growing up as much as the idea of finding someone suitable to spend the rest of my life with.

Stranger things have happened, no?

*

Logistics being what they are, I'm still living in the smallest town I've ever lived in, collecting unemployment and putting together E-Books while writing an epic fantasy fiction novel. Pretty sexy, huh?

I write this with a smile on my face. I'm happy.

I entered the world of BDSM simply to explore the possibilities, to find parts of myself that I knew existed, but were hidden. I thought, at best, I would find some fun sex and develop more self awareness.

All of that happened. I was right about that. Apparently, my cynicism set the bar too low.

*

I have not been on blogspot, because coming to this website causes my modem to crash sporadically. It didn't happen today, so I decided now would be a good time to write this note.

I apologize if I have not been checking other blogs, or responding to comments. It's not because I do not care. I have been busy.

I have two final "E-Book" projects coming together.

One is a compilation of erotic stories, some short, others lengthier. I will combine some new material with some of the previously published stories into a larger stories-only anthology.

The other is a book of poetry. Market trends suggest that no one really buys poetry, so it's more of a project of love. I want my (mostly vanilla) friends and family to have something of mine.

After all, moving out of the country is expensive. Know that your dollars are well spent. *wink*

I will post links here when they are complete. Otherwise, I may not be blogging much between now and then.

For years, I have told myself that if I chose a path, and stuck to it, I would eventually reach the desired destination.

Can you make your dreams a reality? I have. Simply by following that advice. The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step in that direction; no one is exempt from the rules of time.

Peace, health and happiness to you.

Let my dreams be as the undying tree,
Let my hopes remain perpetually.
Storms in life tremble those unsure of aim.
Let my passion survive to define me.

Rooted deep in conviction, be the same
Unshaken by chance while playing fate's game.
May not soul's desire be so cast aside.
Let resolve and honor fill my mind's frame.

Challenges to face, I shall not go hide -
But find great strength to endure deep inside,
To face life's burdens without levity.
May I live knowing my dreams weren't denied.