Confronting

I’m often confronted by the realization that what I want frightens me.  I know that’s… vague.  but that is what the experience is—a vague feeling of fear. 

I want, but I’m afraid of, responsibility.

I want, but I’m afraid of, major purchases.

I want, but I’m afraid of, intimacy.

I want, but I’m afraid of, sex.

I’m coming to grips with a lot of the above.  And, reading over that list, the one that feels the most vulnerable to admit to is the last. 

Sex, as a youth, meant furtive masturbatory experiences.  There was no place for it in polite conversation, or in my every day. 

Sex, in college, meant struggling with what I was told was ‘right’ with what I felt was right.  I ‘should’ want a relationship with a woman, I felt I wanted—no craved—the touch of a man, instead.  For years, I continued to struggle with that juxtaposition and, afterward, with the bifurcation of my personal life with my ‘family’ life.  Secrets kept until my mid-to-late 20s.  I understood that part of myself, but did not have the strength of character to admit it to my family, or many of my friends.

Sex, in my 20s and 30s, was scarce—largely owing to my own insecurities and, yes, fear.  I’ve always been shy, and socially awkward—though as I’ve gotten older I’ve ‘covered’ that better.  It still terrifies me to be in social settings though, admittedly, less so when I don’t know anyone at all.  Weird? Maybe—but when I’m in a completely new place, when I know no one, I can convince myself that there’s no harm in making an ass of myself—if that should happen.  It relieves the pressure.  So to speak.

You hit your 40s, with only a handful of sexual experiences under your belt—so to speak—and you wonder if you know anything about sex at all.  I also, finally, admitted to myself that bottoming—scary, full of the fear that it would hurt—was something I had thought about, and envied in others.  In porn, if a bottom can lose themselves in the sensations of bottoming… that is what I covet. 

Slowly, I’m coming out of my shell.  every step is a bit frightening, and more than a bit empowering.  Every step, thankfully, has been a step forward.  When I lose patience with myself, I’m reminded of that. 

The other thing I’ve had to confront lately is that I’ve been waiting.  Waiting for something to happen—for someone or something to bring change into my life.  Fear again.  Of committing to a change, or an action.  Fear of taking a chance, and being rebuffed.  I’m tired of living in fear.  I’m trying to take ownership of my own life, and what that means.  

So, 45th birthday behind me, I choose to stop waiting and start taking chances.  I remind myself that I don’t have to change overnight—that each step is a step forward, to knowing myself better and to becoming a whole, healthy, sexual being. 

Melancholia

***Warning: Not the least bit sexy***

I will admit to a certain amount of melancholia at this time of year.  Birthdays do that to me.  It’s a reminder of where I am, and where I thought I’d be, and how disparate those two really are. 

Add to that a certain amount of upheaval—new job, new lifestyle (working from home)—and it’s a bit of a recipe for disaster.

So, imagine how my evening turned out when someone posted a link (below) with little preamble.  Once I clicked on it, I found it to be an 11 minute section of Prayers for Bobby.  Never having seen it, I watched it.  Fair warning—if the rest of the movie is anything like these 11 minutes—it’s an amazingly moving story, heart wrenching and uplifting in turns.  All the more so because it’s not just a story.  Bobby was a 19 year old boy who, having come out to his mother—a Christian (capitol C)—was greeted with all of the litany of things I feared when I grappled with the realization that I was gay.  You see, I was raised—at least for the latter part of my formative years—in a born-again Christian household.  I heard, often, how gays were sinner bent on hell and damnation.  It wasn’t my parents (or in this case foster parents) trying to convince me—though maybe, at some point, at some level, they knew long before I did.  It was just them espousing their beliefs.  Hell and damnation, and the knowledge that I was, less than.  To be prayed for, but not accepted.  “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” It’s a charming little sound byte.  But what happens when a person realizes that, at their very core, it’s not a phase.  It’s not just a habit or behavior, but it’s who they are—as integral as their hair color or eye color.  I didn’t choose to be gay.  I didn’t choose to face a world where even your family aren’t necessarily your allies.  What I did choose was to walk away from my family.  From people who never really understood why.  How could they understand that ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ translated for me into ‘how could you love me when you reject something that is so part of who I am?’  It was, in a few small words, the assurance that they would never really be able to love me for me.  There would always be, at some level, a hope that I would change—that prayer, and ‘trying hard enough’ would make me different. 

Bobby chose a different way out.  At the age of 19, rejected by the ones who were supposed to love him the most, he took his own life.  I was reminded how often, at a similar age, I felt cut off from those in my life who were meant to be closest to me.  Thoughts of a similar fate weren’t foreign to me.  I’m not entirely sure what kept me going. 

Yes, this blog entry is atypical – for this blog at least.  I will say that, having watched the clip below, I was touched both by the memories of my own life and the way that Bobby’s mother changed.  She has become a strong advocate for gay rights, and sees how her rigid beliefs failed her son.  It is her goal to make the world a safe place for people like Bobby. 

I share this link with you because it hit so close to home.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3hxop0pHkw&fb_source=message

New experiences

Sex involves a certain amount of vulnerability.  In my life, I’ve been vulnerable—and clearly made poor choices with whom.  The result is that it’s not easy for me to be open to sex, or to be open with people.  One of the things I’ve chosen to do with my life is approach sex, and vulnerability, and try and gain back some of what I think I’ve lost.

I rarely feel visible, in uncontrolled settings.  Take that for what you will.  In light of that, over the years, a couple of ways to deal:

1)  self-medicate so that I feel less inhibited

2)  pay for sex

The former rarely has worked out well.  Though it has afforded me a handful of interesting stories to share.  I’ve shared them, though admittedly left out the ‘buyer’s remorse’ that typically hits the next day.  Sure, there was the time in NYC during gay pride when I knelt before two men and took care of their dicks.  Sure, there was the pair that I sucked off in a back alley in Chicago.  Yes, there was the time, at Folsom, where I made out—and more—with the attractive older guy in a bar.  The fact that I did so only because I was tipsy (I’m being generous) is what leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

The times I’ve paid for sex, though.  Some of those have been truly eye opening experiences.  One I’ve already blogged about here.  The other that comes to mind is relatively recent.

I say ‘paid for sex’ but really, this was sexual but didn’t involve intercourse, or oral.  It involved a massage—both external and internal. 

Arriving at his home, it was very peaceful.  He’d set aside a private space for his practice.  It was soothing, and welcoming.  I’d had the chance to discuss with him what my goals were—to explore opening myself up to sex, both figuratively and literally.  In spite of a fairly open—and very accepting—conversation and well set expectations, I was nervous.  Driving to his neighborhood, I was nervous.  Parking on his street, I was nervous.  Walking up to his door, I was nervous.  Once I got inside, though, and we sat on the massage table and started talking… my nerves went away.  Instead, I was excited.  Vibrating, almost.  Hard to breathe.  That kind of excited. 

Laying face down, naked, on the warm table my nerves came back a bit.  Not debilitating, just… there.  The smell of sage, cleansing.  Breathing, deep.  In… out. 

The feeling of his warm hands, oiled, on my back while I breathed—relaxing.  As he worked his way down my back, ever closer to my butt, I felt my anticipation building.  Working on my butt—not the crack, not the hole—I breathed a bit more… then to my thighs and legs.

There was a moment when his hands spread my legs farther apart, something about the strength in his hands in that movement that was exciting but not overwhelming. I started losing a sense of timeline.  I remember the sensations, and experience in general.  It’s hard to break up the whole into snippets.

There was the feeling of oil down my the crack in my ass.  I continued deep breathing, but when he touched my hole—even to just stroke the oil over it—my breath became a gasp.  The sensation as he stroked my ass, while spreading the cheeks apart.  Then there’s the feeling of him reaching between my legs—while I continued to lie face down—reaching under me and stroking my hard dick.   The sensation of his tongue on my hole, the feeling of his mouth, biting the cheeks of my ass.  These come rushing back to me.  Gasps.  I’d rimmed men—and enjoyed that—but never been treated to that myself.  Was afraid I wouldn’t enjoy it.  Unfounded fear, as it turned out.  Breathing.  Gasping.  Occasionally moaning.  There was never insertion—well not of cock into ass. 

Fingers, yes.  Toys, yes.  The overwhelming sensations of a toy inside me while he stroked me, hard and wet as I was.  Feelings of uncertainty—would I continue to like this? Would there be a moment where I just shut down, shut off.

There were three toys, I think, that night.  The last, as it vibrated inside me, he laid on my back and thrust with his pelvis.  Fucked by a vibrating, hard surrogate.  Feeling his warmth against my back.  The hair of his chest. 

Breathing.  Respite.   A moment to collect myself.  Then I was on my back, and his warm hands—slick with oil—played across my body.  My nipples, my dick, my arms and arm pits, nothing went untouched or unstroked.  No kissing. 

I can’t tell you the number of times that I laid there, overcome by tremors.  My body overwhelmed with sensations.  Each time there would be a few moments respite, and then the feelings would build again under his practiced hands.

When the evening ended, I was a sodden mess—wrung out.  I can’t even tell you if I came or not.  He told me I did, but I was lost to the moment.  Covered in oil, feeling a sense of connectedness and openness, I dressed and drove home.

Thinking about the experience, the drive home uneventful.  Thinking about the experience, the ride up in the elevator beneath my notice.  Thinking about the experience, I came, lying on the floor in my bathroom in three strokes of a wet hand. 

Advice

If you’re going to play with the item below—which I heartily recommend, for anyone who’s into it—I’d suggest a water based lube, such as Str8cam lube.  Experience says it’s just better.

Str8cam Lube

Bandito (via Stockroom.com)

Worshiping Part 4

I remember, vividly, the feel of a black shirt under my hands.  I remember how the material felt as I slid my palms across it, across his chest.  Reverently, my fingers sought the buttons.  Nervous, I fumbled.  He was patient.

Starting at his chest, at my hands, my peripheral vision could just make out the gentle smile on his face.  A curl of lip, more pronounced for the dark swath of goatee.  He didn’t help me.  This was my task.  This was my honor. 

One by one, I undid the buttons constraining his chest.  Bit by bit, the cloth receded and I could see the skin of him, dusted with hair.  Once I’d unbuttoned all, I stood there – unsure if I should reach for his pants, unsure if I should take it upon myself. 

Again, he read my thoughts, “Go ahead, finish with the shirt.”

I reached, hands slightly trembling, to free the shirt tails from his pants.  To do so, I reached around him.  I drew so close to his chest that I could feel the heat of his skin, smell his scent, feel the hair against my lips.  But I held back.  Freed of the confines of his jeans, the shirt open, I reached up to undrape it from his shoulders. 

He stood before me, shirtless and bare.  I let my gaze take him in.  Skin, smooth and tanned.  Chest hair, dark and soft.  His right nipple pierced.  Stomach flat, with a treasure trail disappearing into the folds of his waistband.

Again, I risked looking up, into his face.

“Do you like what you see, boy?”

“yes… yes Sir.” My lips were dry.

There was heat in his eyes.  I’ve read that type of description for years, but never—never truly—understood what that meant.  Until now.  I hadn't realized I could feel any more naked than I already was.

“Shall I take off your pants Sir?”

Before I could move, he wound his hand in the chain lead attached to my collar and he pulled me to him, roughly.  Grinding his lips against mine, tongue invading my mouth roughly.  I felt invaded, but incredibly turned on.

He pulled away from me just as suddenly.  “No more talking from you, boy. Now, get on your knees.”

Worshipping (Part 3)

Something remarkable happens to me, when i let down my guard.  It doesn’t happen often, but when it does…

There i knelt, naked but for the collar and short leash He had placed on me.   i’d been bathing His boot with my tongue.  i’d been so intent on my task that i hadn’t noticed Him lean over me.  Gently, His hand touched my head, stroking my hair.

“Good boy.”

i felt so many things when He said that.  Pleased, grateful, perhaps a bit proud.

“Take off my boots.”

i sat back, on my haunches, head bowed, focused on untying His left boot.  Once untied, i gently lifted His leg until i could pull the boot off.  Once it was in my hand, i risked looking up at Him.  He was watching me, knowing what it was i wanted.  A small smile played on His lips, and He nodded – ever so slightly.  i slowly drew His boot to my nose, inhaling once, twice.  my chest felt full of His scent.  Before i could get too distracted, i placed His boot off to the side, repeating the process with His right boot.

“Now the socks.”

i gently pulled up His left foot, once again, removing the sock, feeling the hair of His bare leg under my hands.  As i went to set it aside, He held out his Hand.

“Give it here.”

Once securely in his grasp, i reached for the other foot.  

Before i could touch it, i felt His hand gently on my check, my jaw, raising my face to look at Him.  In His hand was the one, well warn sock. 

“Open your mouth.”

Without reservation, i opened.

He placed the point of the sock on my tongue.

“Close.”

It rested on my tongue, in my mouth.

“Now take off the next one.”

i was beginning to feel overwhelmed, awash in His scents and His taste.  Once the second sock was off, He had me sit back, hands behind me.  i was struck by the resemblance of my pose to that of a dog, trained or begging.  i sat their quietly while He looked at me.

“You’re my good boy, aren't you?” It was a rhetorical question.  i was whatever He would have me be.

He reached toward me – hands going to my chest, rather than my face.  i felt the contact of His skin against mine, realizing how warm i’d become.  He stroked down my chest, pausing at each nipple.  Playing with the jewelry He found there.  Gently, stroking.  Slightly twisting.  Little jolts of sensation going to my groin.

Stroking lower, across my stomach towards my dick – my dick that was hard, so hard.  He stopped short of touching it.  Watching my face, as my eye lids dropped, while i was immersed in sensation.

He moved away from me, sitting back on the bench.  His withdrawal opens my eyes, afraid I’ve done something wrong.  He’s still smiling at me. 

“Help Me with the rest of my clothes, boy.”

We all respond differently

We all respond differently to touch.  For me, touch has always been negotiated.  I know that may sound strange.  Touch has never been entirely safe – I won’t bore you with the reasons.  Suffice it to say, home never felt safe, and boundaries were never really respected.  Because I’ve always been a bit skittish about touch—whether touching , or being touched by, someone else—I’ve found it surprising that I’m drawn to massage.   Perhaps it’s because it is inherently a healthy, safe structure in which touch is healthy, respectful, helpful and therapeutic.  Sounds good, doesn’t it?  Ok, maybe it’s just because I know what the rules are and that gives me a false sense of safety.

In any event, the recent addition of a couple of new sites dedicated to eroticizing massage has made for some interesting evenings.  Staunch supporter of porn, as I am, I find msyelf replaying the set up to scenes almost more often than the sexiness.  Something about touch, bare naked skin against skin, that I covet.