Expanding Whorizons

Looking back over the course of this blog, I have to admit it surprised me how long ago I made my last entry. Life got busy, I moved three times, changed jobs four times and frankly, depression sucked the joy of out of life and my interest in sex, or blogging about sex. Now, of course, life's taken a turn for all of us. Not sure if that justifies a return to blogging because of, or in spite of, current events but here we are.

“Undress me.” Quiet, authoritative. A command, not a request. I reached out, hesitant at first, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Before I could grasp them, he grabbed both arms at the wrist. “Look at me.” I dared not disagree or disappoint. “I’ve given you a direct order, do not hesitate, do not second guess yourself.  In this situation, there is no choice – I’ve made those choices for you and I trust you to do as I say. Let go of the thoughts that cause you to hesitate.” He looked at me, waiting until I nodded that I’d heard and understood him. Then he released my hands. This time I didn’t hesitate – I started unbuttoning his shirt from collar to waist, focusing, making my movements efficient. The entire time, I breathed deeply… steadying my nerves and inhaling his scent. His shirt hadn’t been tucked in to begin with, and in short order he stood with his shirt fully unbuttoned, his skin warm beneath the cloth. In turn, he held out his left and then his right

The room was surprisingly light, with shallow windows around the top of the walls. The walls were white, the floor dark—covered in the kind of material you’d expect in a gym. The floors were scuff resistant, with just enough bounce to avoid serious damage. The implements were clean… the smell of disinfectant in the air. The furniture led one to think of a combination of a well-appointed gym, and the marquis de sade. “Make yourself to home.” His voice low, and closer than I’d expected, both startling and titillating. I was torn. I wanted to drink him in with my eyes, memorize every part of him. I also wanted to avert my eyes, as was appropriate of a subordinate.  In this there was no second-guessing that I was a subordinate. Turning my gaze to him, I found him looking me over, smiling. His smile spoke volumes, but mostly it spoke of patience. He understood that this was all new to me, he found a certain enjoyment and, dare I say it, joy in that. Reaching across the space

I keep waiting for you to stop caring.  The sad part is that it’s been the hallmark of our ‘relationship’ this expectation… like I need you so much more than you need me.  I don’t think you ever realized how important you’ve become to me.  So much of our time was spent talking about what was going on in your life—not that I begrudge you that.  You have been dealing with a bunch of stuff—stuff that I don’t envy you at all. it’s just that, really, you were the only friend I felt I had in Seattle.  You were he one I wanted to spend my time with—no so much out of desperation for another person in my life, though.  You were the one that mattered.  You… I feel… I love you.

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 my

***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