So what's on your menu? That was essentially the focus of my recent interview with the lovely, obviously talented, and oh-so-smart certain someone who shall remain anonymous until she gives me permission to share her identity. As we virtual chatted about the origins and manifestations of my kink, her very attentive and perceptive questions honed in on what it is I really like and why. While I've ruminated, analyzed, and pondered this stuff for sometime now, I'd never really had someone inquire and follow the thread of from whence my desires issue in quite the same consistently thoughtful way. Save for my shrink - and I've known her since I was two - or so it sometimes feels.
So when the certain now nameless someone began to ask me about my thing for humiliation I was really challenged to deconstruct and elucidate a deep, erotic drive that is, in so many ways, the essence of what makes my kinky second hand sweep. For me, the image of the snarly domme, barking and spitting about my flimsy, flaccid, farce of an excuse for wood is just so much ill informed hamfisting. It's the mainstream media archetype. It conjures images of a cowering, embarrassed, weak, submissive who craves feeling bad about himself.
Now, if that's your thing, more power to you. But for me, my need for a humiliatrix is all about love, romance, sex, empowerment, redemption and transcendence. I've done an awful lot of sexualizing difficult situations in order to feel good about bad stuff. From mother stuff, to a classically unhappy adolescence, to a completely failed vanilla sex life - I've eroticized the emotional malfunction of mommy dearest's disparagement and life's disappointments in general.
Why, you may ask, if I understand this can't I get the cure and just be normal. Well, being a pervert is much more interesting, it feels way hot, and it just plain is who I am. It is by seeking the replication of disapproval and transcending it that I am redeemed. My domme values my need because it permits her sadism. Together we fit perfectly and it is there in that pain space that I am capable of tremendous intimacy and romance. It's pretty counter-intuitive but I know surely in my heart that it is true for me.
On a breezier note, we chatted about my thing for vintage lingerie. Give me a nice black Rago Shapette open bottomed girdle and a long line bullet bra over leather any day of the week. Not that there's a problem with leather. There's just something about lycra and support circling when baby's got back that sets my heart aflutter. Just what did Katie do, anyhow?
The wife is away for ten days or so and I am off the leash. Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny day with a hint of fall in the soft September air. I've found over the years that back-to-school weather always excites the perv in me. Or maybe it's just Day Twenty of on-my-honor chastity that has me itching for a little of the old kinky slap and tickle. At any rate, loose in the dog run of life that is autumn in New York, I decided to make a trip to Purple Passion, a venerable Manhattan bdsm/fetish store.
I've been to PP a few times but yesterday just seemed so natural and fun. Like going to Whole Foods to see if they have the Louisiana-made chicory coffee I drink sometimes. It was a treat. Some years back on the rare occassion I went into a sex store, I used to feel like I was unshowered, wearing a stained raincoat over my dirty, naked body and aching to shout in a gnawing declaration of guilt - I'm a demented pervert. Yesterday I was a demented pervert and very proud of it, thank you very much.
I had a virtual laundry list of kinky nick nacks to acquire. I was after solid rings for my CB-3000, the new Birdlocked chastity device, some kind of CBT toy with teeth, a prostate massager, a cock whip, and some nipple clamps. Don't imagine She-Who-Visits might think I'm topping from the bottom now, do we? While she's been much more connected these days, she's understandably not kinky cataloguing just for me. Like a greedy little schoolboy in a sneaker store, I'm doing depraved wish listing all on my lonesome.
So anyway, I arrived at the store and cheerily asked the young guy at the register whether they had solid ring sets for the CB-3000. No stuff for the CB series at all, he responded. Maybe a shipment next week. What, there's been a run on chastity supplies? Maybe every other twisted money shot denial fiend in the city is locking up in honor of the start of classes. Let's see, pencils...check; notebooks...check; chastity device...check.
Well, do you have the Birdlocked, I asked hopefully? A quizzical, stumped look came over the guy's face and he confessed he had no clue what I was talking about. This totally floored me. Since when have I become more knowledgeable than venerable fetish store employees about chastity devices? We proceeded to have a perfectly nice chat about the features of the Birdlocked, on-line reviews of the thing, and his promise to check it all out.
Finally, I said I was looking for something in a nice cock whip. He showed me their "impact play" collection. Nice, but all were serious, full-sized, flat-out floggers. Save for one little wimpy, floppy, rubbery thing. Doesn't really inspire attention to teacher, now does it? But suddenly, he brightened and blurted, "Wait, I got it!". He rushed up to the register and pulled out a minature cane from an obscured countertop storage cannister. A snappy, turned black rubber handle gave way to a pretty, perky, blonde wood shaft. It had style, heft, and was about a foot long. I smacked my erect index finger with it a few times.
Now this has some serious potential.
And for $3.58 it was a fetish recessionary, blue-light, K-Mart special score. Sold American! After paying, I went outside on the street, publicly brandished my newfound toy and took a BlackBerry picture of it. I immediately emailed it to She to share my frugal find. So far, no responding comment. Oh well, what's an enterprising independant study oriented student to do?
And so, as fall inspires me to be true to my rock-'n-roll high school, I'm thinking that while I don't need no education and I don't need no thought control; this back to school feeling of hope and potential connects me to the universal human condition that we all just want to be happy, have friends, and suck up to teacher - especially if she's hot. Hey, in the process I might just learn something new!
Yesterday was my nineteenth wedding anniversary. I tried to do right. I really did. I ordered flowers, I cancelled appointments and took off work. We went out to a nice local restaurant in the country. I tried to do it right. But in the middle of dinner the wife says,
"So, have you heard from you friend Ms. Blah-Blah?"
Now, Ms. Blah Blah is a real estate agent who happens to have the same first name as my friend Ms. Mahwah Kiss. Stupidly, without seeking a point of clarification I answered.
"She started her own firm."
"Oh, I didn't mean your "special friend" Blah-Blah, I meant real estate Blah-Blah", she snarled.
And we were off to the races. I tried to suggest that it was our anniversary. Perhaps our last one. To no avail. She kept pushing and digging. Had I seen Ms. Mahwah? Lunched, dined, or drank with Mr. Mahwah? Had she been by the office? Had I not even emailed or texted her since her return to NYC?
The funny thing is, if you're a reader of the advochasty chronicles, Ms. Mahwah is not at the top of my hit parade as a love interest to say the least. She is a good, fun, dear friend. But I'm out as a perv with her and there's no sexual circuit breaking going on there.
My wife thinks that I have the hots for Ms. Mahwah because on my first "date" with Crimson friends of ours spotted us and I was later outted unintentionally to my wife. It was one of those comical scenes if you weren't living through it.
I was getting off the train in the country and spotted Dan, one of a couple we know from weekends.
"Hey, Advo, Stevie and I saw you out at Vegan Heaven on Wednesday with a very hot looking babe. We were trying to get your attention, but you seemed pretty engrossed."
Uh-oh. Stevie was meeting Dan at the station and was telling my wife this story as I was de-training. Of course, I had told my wife I was out at a boring, rubber chicken fest of a professional function. With only moments to spare, I decided I would tell my wife that I had been out with Ms. Mahwah Kiss.
Ms. Mahwah Kiss and I are good friends. So are Crimson and I. I'm not running away with either of them. Neither of them threaten my marriage. I suppose I understand that my wife feels vulnerable and unwanted because we don't have sex. She feels completely dependant on me, The Lying Liar, because I make all the money - such as that is these days.
But last night, as I told the dirty, rotten lies of lying liardom and repeatedly denied seeing Ms. Kiss despite our lunches, chats and texts; I longed to stop weaving tangled webs of deceit. I wanted to say that when Ms. Kiss returned from the West she was devastated for reasons I won't share here. I sent her to my shrink who she loved and she's on her feet and okay. I wanted to say I was actually out that night last year with Crimson; an incredible, brilliant, nice, facinating prodomme, who is my wonderful friend and has helped me feel good about myself.
But I can't. It would be cruel. She'd never understand. And on my nineteenth anniversary; despite flowers, making time, and a nice, romantic country restaurant - this was the reason that all this deception just needs to end. My marriage cannot accomodate my life.
Did you ever get writer's block because it all just feels bottled up? All the things you want to say about an experience just crowd at your heart or stick in your throat or gum up your soul. They want out but something keeps them from forming. Without hurting, you want to illuminate. Without sounding trite or glib you reach to capture the detail of a moment and it stops - held like a constantly repeating busy signal - until you let it go. When you try again, it's just another rental car on the highway instead of a magical ship on the way to a beautiful island for a weekend of discovery.
At sunset we walked on the beach. As the world darkened She looked at the ocean and told me she could hear it breath. It was so alive for her. As She and I wandered, her deep red toenails pointed at a little shell in the wet sand here and a bigger shell in the dry sand there. I scooped them all up and put them like treasure in the little plastic bucket I carried, always trailing slightly behind her.
"Imagine if we'd met when we were single," she said softly. "And you were twenty years younger." ---------------
Out of the blue on the phone one day she had told me to wait. It was a first. I had not asked even though I desperately wanted it. I had not begun it on my own as I often do. Her instruction was unadulerated by any request or action of mine. It was now Day Twenty Four. I had honored her on each in a tour of chastity She exacted from me. I ached for her.
Lunch was late after seashell servitude. I had bought my own fins this time at her direction. The sea by our beach was calm, but her scaley riches were fewer and further between than they'd been on our last visit. We worked hard for them. Then the black clouds and rain chased us off and it was late afternoon. I was hungry. For food and for She.
In the kitchy little restaurant, She ordered a seafood salad and an open faced sandwich with some kind of meat in it. It came with french fries. Greedily, she ate. She relished each bite - slowly, as she watched me lust for her food. She gave me a crust of bread and a french fry. Sauce clung to her lip and she took a last sip of wine.
In the touristy shell shop across the street I held her blue plastic shopping basket as she loaded it full of pretty, store bought welks and fighting conch.
"I feel dirty and cheap," she moaned. "I can't believe they sell these for two dollars." She went on and on about how she'd work so hard to find hers and clean them and put clear laquer on them to make them nice and shiny.
"I can't believe I'm paying for shells." ------------------------
Sometimes when I write I feel like I'm just talking to myself in my living room. I forget that I write about real feelings and people's lives and I just give it up to the words that seem to flow. Tonight the words are stuck. The right phrase is just out of reach. Two lives intersected and entangled for three amazing days. Then they separate and go on. The memory stalls like a bank of thunderclouds. I wait for rain, but nothing comes.
Tonight I feel fear inside each wish I harbor. But my fears are full of wonderful, unthinkable wishes. Oh to be single and twenty years younger.