Ice Cream

An excerpt from a piece I'm currently working on:

...There's something about the sheer hunger, something very masculine about the concept of devouring--Takeru Kobayashi's world famous hot dog eating eating contests, frat boys downing bongs. It definitely has something to do with the fact that once he has filled himself to capacity--the good ones, the "feedees", can drink almost a gallon at a time--he is incapacitated. No bondage cuffs could hold a pretty boy as willingly in thrall as the warm, heavy belly and the loggy feeling that comes after an orgy of overindulgence. To my mind, there is nothing so sweet to look at as a naked, full-bellied boy "sleeping it off"...

It's a lot like bar hopping in that I drop down into a crossfire of conversation, a hungry boy latches onto me, and if he passes the first tests of grammar and basic articulateness I take him aside into a private chat-room. We'll stay there for the first "getting to know you" paragraphs and then switch to Yahoo chat for the webcams. The little screen opens and I see an unfamiliar bedroom, a new body.

He's naked in an office chair. I can see his brush, his dick...oh, and his belly. He's just a little plump, so it contrasts nicely with the rest of his body, not to big or too small, and I can't see the rest of him because he's angled the camera to cut out his face. Once when he moved to the other side of the room to get something something shifted and I spied the color of his hair before he bought up his hand to cover his face like a prima donna hounded by the paparazzi. I want to respect his privacy and yet at the same time it seems so frustrating and pointless not to be able to see his face.

Beside him is one of those plain plastic tubs of ice cream you can get at the grocery store. He says he's let the ice cream inside melt, so that he can swallow it more easily and it won't give him a tummy freeze. Such details fascinate me, all the little bitty things that can't be thought of, but can only be realized through experience. Like a sailor talking about proper knots or a foodie describing the various ways to make a single dish, you can tell a true expert by the attention to detail, the little things he does to make the job easier.

He lifts the whole thing to his mouth, like drinking from a bucket. There's no way he can drink a gallon, but he's going to try. My clit swells as I watch his throat move, and if I watch carefully I can even see his tummy grow a bit with each swallow, each gulp traveling down to press it out a little more. A loop of melted cream falls across the soft flesh just above his nipple, and I offer to lick it off.

He stops, overwhelmed. He can't do it, though he made a good try. His tummy is noticeably bigger, rounder. fuller. This pleases me: that he looks better, that my favorite part of him is more exaggerated, that his senses are overwhelmed with sweetness and richness and gluttony. He runs his hand down his belly, caressing it, then, without asking me, begins to jerk off.

Homecoming

I went to my college's homecoming party because I hoped I'd get laid.

It had been almost a year since I'd been on campus, despite the fact that I lived in the same town and still had one or two friends there who'd been a year behind me. I decided to go because I'd always had good luck at homecomings in the past, there would be free beer, and it had been long enough since I'd been there that I would just seem like another alum. I could pretend I had just come into town, and thus avoid the questions which would lead to me revealing that I'd been laid off and out of work for almost four months.

Additionally, my good friend Anastasia had invited me. She was engaged to be married, and this was one of the few times she'd be staying up late for a real party. I was an old hand at these things, even had a playlist that I listened to to get me in the mood as I got ready, walked from my house to campus.

Don't think of Constantine.

It's unlikely he'll be there, I said to myself, accessing the emotional risks. But in an obsessive nature such as my own, some fantasies are inevitable. With everyone half blind with alcohol, who knew whose bed I would end up in at the end of the night?

I won't go into any details--such fantastic thoughts embarrass me in the sober light of day. Anyway, by the time I was nearing campus, I had put such dreams away in the worry over the endless questions I might be asked: why was I still living in town? What happened to my plans for New York City? Had I applied for graduate school?

The truth was I was embarrassed to go, but it was the only party in town.

I solved this problem by downing a beer in my first ten minutes and going in search of something stronger. Unlike last year, however, there was no hard liquor behind the stage, only a couple making out beneath the emergency exit light. Good. If people were making out already, I'd be bound to pick somebody up, maybe some sweet 19 year old freshman boy with a private dorm room...

But at a party attended by almost 200 people, that was the only couple I saw.

Instead, there was Constantine.

I hadn't made any plans to seek him out, or even to notice him, but the moment I stepped onto the improvised dance floor he broke from the crowd and got as far away from me as he could. I had to brush past him when I wanted to seek someone on the dance floor or went over to the tables for a drink. When I left to go outside for a breather he'd be out there smoking, and when I tried to come in he'd decide to rejoin the party at the same time as me. In my increasingly buzzed state I began to wonder if he wanted something from me, or if this was some sophisticated form of torture. I tried to make a joke of it to Anastasia: "I'm seeing Constantine everywhere!"

"I'm sure he doesn't see you," she replied in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

But it was comforting to know that the social agony my memories from last year were colored with hadn't just been a result of overactive emotions. This place really was small, and the parties I had gone to mainly so as not to make it seem like I was afraid of him really had been difficult. After he stood right next to me and Anastasia as we danced, obviously "looking for someone in the crowd", I was glad when she suggested we take a break. I had had four beers, and in another minute or two I would have grabbed Constantine by the collar and either bawled out an apology or finished what we'd started 3 years ago.

I don't drink much. It's always social drinking, and lately I've begun to wonder if I should even do that. The reason is that a good drunk--that happy free floaty feeling where I want to hump almost anyone--can so quickly become a bad drunk. In the course of three or four hours I can crash into the dangerous round of thought that no one will ever fuck me again, nothing I have achieved is worth anything, no one will remember me when I die. Like when I was a child at my first IMAX theatre, I will become more overwhelmed than most people in the audience, unable to resist a powerful feeling of vertigo. "Easily overstimulated," says Q.

In the safety of Anastasia's dorm room I collapsed on her bed, hugging one of the huge squishy pillows she had there. She collects Klimt prints, has put up photos of her family and charming little drawings and trinkets she's made, has DVDs like You've Got Mail and The Hours. "This is peaceful," I said. She and her fiance, for all our ideological differences, are like a little island of calm compared to me. I wanted to tell her how the rising tide of bad memories had been quelled simply by a change of scene, of how a week ago I'd been surprised to notice that I hadn't thought of Constantine for ages, only to have it flare up again in his actual presence. Of how happy I was that she was there, when usually I have no one to save me from the bad drunk but myself.

Instead, we got into an argument about sex.

I have no idea how it began. I've told my closer friends and family part of the truth. Q. knows I have a blog, though not what it's about, and promised she has no interest in reading it. Anastasia knows I meet people online for sex, but has no idea why I do this when I could meet someone normal in a less dangerous fashion. Perhaps I had just quoted something someone had said on Twitter.

What are these people like? she wanted to know, "Do they have jobs?" From her tone she thought they were a lot of vagrants living off the back of the state--as I was I until very recently, for at the time of this conversation I had a food stamp card in my wallet.

"Well," I began, deciding to play for sympathy, "some of them have children to come home to--"

"Then they are obscene!" she exclaimed. "You think they don't know?"

I'm not sure how she made the connection between having children in a house and having wild sex in the same house without my saying anything, but the jump had been made. "Q. dated," I recalled, and tried to stammer out an anecdote about a trip to another state and adjoining hotel rooms, but the tone was wrong.

"This is too personal," she said, "we should stop."

So we did. But I wanted to say that you always kind of know, even in households where there are no orgies. There was an article in one of those teen magazines about funny "I walked in on my parents" stories, and my cousin had once complained to me about accidentally ending up in a similar situation: "Ugh, old people!" And knowing what I do now, was there really anything wrong with what Q. was trying to do? She'd gotten divorced when I was one, didn't start dating again until she was in her late 30s. I'd never actually seen anything, though I had my 12-year-old suspicions. When I teased her for going back to the laundromat with its cute attendant because she had "forgotten" something, she'd thrown a pair of socks at me.

But accidents do happen. And some people push and blur the boundaries in worrisome ways. Even Q. had said to me, long after she'd ended that stage of dating men that neither of us were very comfortable with, "I wasn't a very good role model."

"Is this really good?" Anistasia wanted to know, meaning, I guess, internet dating and the unspoken suspicions of bondage, beatings, god knows what.

"It's good and bad--"

"It can't be good and bad! It's either one or the other!"

"Oh come on", I said, "there's nothing about the Catholic church you don't like?"

"Well," she faltered, and I remembered we'd had the same number of beers, "it's really old..."

"So are we!" I was sure there were frescos of people having orgies and cross dressing going back hundreds of years.

"That's just debauchery," she protested.

"Same thing!"

Really, we were in no shape to debate about any of these things, though they needed to be talked about. The difficulty was that I didn't think we'd do any better if both of us were sober. This time I called a break in the conversation, and when we came back we hugged and swore eternal friendship. We decided it was time to go back to the party, forget all this, dance some more.

But really, she said as I got my things together, why do you do it?

"After Constantine, I said, pulling on my raincoat, "I had trouble trusting anybody--"

"--with good reason", she broke in.

"Do you know what a sexual surrogate is?"

She didn't, so I explained as we went down the stairs. How they didn't really have them any more, but that there'd used to be specially trained people who would have sex with dysfunctional people. Because if you're emotionally or physically screwed up, you have two choices: either never have sex again--

She tried to interrupt.

--or get with one of these people, who can help train you so you don't end up hurting people any more. These people are like sexual surrogates. In like six months, when I'm done--


"Are you OK?" Anastasia asked an unsteady couple who were coming up the stairs.

They're fine, I assured her, they just think I'm crazy because I'm talking about sexual surrogates in public.

Anastasia wasn't satisfied with this, and we quarreled about it until we got back to the dance floor, which, despite the longer curfew, was looking pretty bare. We decided it was time to part. We hugged, and I went out the front door, where Constantine was once again smoking on the patio. I didn't even look at him. I went home. The party was over.

Of course you want to know what happened between us, to make such a mark on me. And the answer is nothing: not rape, nor grey rape, not even some depraved realization of a Marquis de Sade fantasy. We had normal sex, with full consent between both parties, which I initiated.

It was the emotional fallout I couldn't deal with, afterwards.

Seriously, though, this is his last year here, as I hope it is mine. In a month he graduates, and will go back to his home on the other side of the country, or even across the sea. Then, like a pulled tooth, it might finally cease to ache.

The Slit Dream

Image [via] Historical Anatomies on the Web


The slit dream began as a fantasy of violence, a mugging or rape of a particularly beautiful boy I had chased down an alley for just that purpose. It was an expression of my frustrations, a role reversal of the typical dream where one is helplessly chased down unfamiliar alleys by someone who ultimately overpowers you. I am ashamed to admit that (even as a fantasy, which means in real life I would hurt no one), my anger was such that a crowbar would often be used, a personal reenactment of that scene in a Clockwork Orange. Thus, I eventually I switched from simply hurting to immobilizing, and from there to fucking, and from there it evolved into a much stranger fantasy.

The boy in question was first replace by Jaime. After our failed trip to NYC he was also a subject of much frustration, while also being a source of lust. His belly, sometimes of Jesus-Christ-he-swallowed-a-basketball dimensions after a drinking bout, was ideal for the new purpose that I had suddenly conceived. He'd be secured standing to the wall behind him, and I'd tease him as to what was inside it: kittens? Perhaps it was filled with candy, like a pinata?

At this stage I had switched from a crowbar to a single knife. The effect was something like Mr. Flynn rappelling his way down the sail of a pirate ship.

Now my inventive mind has made things much easier: the boy comes pre-perforated, like toilet paper. Having secured him--his hands are bound above his head, always, by immoveable metal staples into a rough brick wall--there is very little foreplay. If he began the fantasy by wearing a shirt, by the time I--or Mister Six, I sometimes imagine it from the POV of either--is ready, any clothing he has above the waist has magically dissolved. A gripping of the flesh on either side of his belly, a sharp tug, and there he is, open.

The boy may struggle at this point, but there is never any pain. Nor is there any blood, though there may be a thin veil of red covering the major organs to give them sheen. Mainly, I imagine his insides to be clean and white, with a touch of blue here and there on the brain-like wrinkles of his intestines or the membrane of his stomach, which may already be much larger than normal. Ideally, the boy will have been been pre-prepared for me so that his internal organs are full and swollen--and therefore, most sensitive.

Here the fantasy may have a small hitch, for I have heard that there are no nerves in the internal organs, and therefore the pleasure I am about to give him will be for myself only. And sometimes I try to go on with the fantasy like that. But a moment later I decide that he can, and dip my tongue inside his body, running it over the dolphin skin of his stomach or the meaty ridges of his intestines. And another consideration: what does he taste like?

Chicken bullion.

The boy, having expected to be in the most agonizing pain of his life, followed by certain death afterwards, will instead find himself writhing in the most exquisite pleasure. There will be no penetration in this dream--how vulgar and stupid, when he is already more open than he has ever been in his life!--and I, or Mister Six, will smile with pleasure as we run our tongues over all the most deliciously secret places of his insides, our faces shiny with the clear and delicious broth that we lap from his internal organs. A little bit of steam may rise in the cold air of the alleyway.

This is where the fantasy always ends.

Beth Ditto

[via] You Can't Piss On Hospitality

Sepia

[via] The Dailies

Thickbondage.com

[via] The Dailies

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Bathhouse

[via] homeofthevain

Crystal Renn

[Via] The Pipeline (Thanks, Tilda!)

Oral

"What would happen if I bit you on the nipples?" I asked, encircling them with my fingertips. They were a normal size, but in my mind they are bright red.

He winced a little. "I wouldn't like that very much."

It's true! I thought, exultantly, but I decided to leave them alone for now. "Have you had sex yet?"

"Tonight?" he asked.

No, I thought, I mean in your whole fucking life. I caressed his thighs and the bulge between them. "Do you want to fuck me first?"

"All right," he said. Was there a little bit of hesitation there? He made the houseboy get him another bourbon and took me by the wrist. "Sometimes you have to ask for a drink even when you really don't want one," he confided to me as he led the way to Tilda's bedroom. I have no idea what this meant.

There were people sitting on the mattress on the floor, talking. "We're going to fuck now!" I told them happily. They laughed, but I couldn't understand why: weren't they just as happy to fuck? I got on the bed first, just lying there since I was already naked. I could hear someone in the other room calling, "Jefferson, Jefferson!"

"They're calling my name when I have a naked girl in front of me," Jefferson said to me, the nerve, and then he pulled down his pants. And because I was on the bed, exactly level with his crotch, for what felt like a minute I had a very good view of Jefferson's Cock.

I think for split second upon seeing it, realizing it WAS his cock, I was terrified. Because Jefferson's Cock had to be the size of a baseball bat. And then I realized it was a perfectly lovely, normal, average sized cock. And then I realized a second thing: he wasn't hard yet.

That surprises me most of all, that he was entirely eager and willing and he wasn't hard yet. And then he was in bed with me and spreading my legs and I realized he was going to give me oral.

"Don't you need...stuff?" I couldn't remember the word: dental dam.

"I need my mouth on your pussy," Jefferson said, and went down on me.

Ah well, I thought, it's not like I've done any different with the last three people I've slept with.

It was an odd technique. The B.H.M. had flicked his tongue in and out of my vagina (and sometimes my anus) while I sucked his dick in the 69 position. It had been wet and warm and very often pleasurable when he'd hit a particularly sensitive spot. Instead, Jefferson seemed to seal his mouth to my vaginal opening. There was nothing wet to it, only a kind of...pulling. Occasionally there'd be a tiny movement, a pinhead of sensation that seemed too delicate to be made by the tongue. I lay on the bed, shifted my hips, trying to accommodate this new technique, and looked at Jefferson's skull between my thighs. Looked at the ceiling, tried not to think. Breathe.

The Diptychs of Frederic Fontenoy

Rembrandt



Untitled



I discovered these via Strange Eros.

If BBWs Ruled the World

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First Impressions

A clothed man answered the door, as if I were making a normal house call. I wondered if I would be fucking him later, started to introduce myself. He started to ask me something, then stopped short. It was as if he had been forbidden to talk, but had forgotten the injunction.

“Jefferson?” I said, invoking the only name I knew.

Instead of answering, the boy motioned for me to follow him upstairs. Though I could conceive of no other place I could be where a boy who refused to speak would lead me upstairs to a party when he had never seen me before, I began to wonder if, somehow, I had gotten the directions entirely wrong and was about to stumble into a hipster party to which I had not been invited.

At the top of the stairs the boy pushed the door open. I found myself in a lovely, white painted apartment, lined with books, chic art--and what seemed like an inordinate number of typewriters. In the living room was a group of people who were fully clothed, holding drinks, and the oldest one--a man--was holding out his hand to me and smiling, saying, "It's Jefferson..." I shook his hand feeling as if my eyes were bugging out--I hadn't recognized him. Somehow he looked entirely different than I had expected, even when we had talked over webcam once before—present in the moment, and very pleased with himself.

Gee, I thought, he is good looking. And so was everyone else in the room--

“..Florida?” Jefferson was asking me things and I wasn't paying attention. "Where are you from?" he went on, looking at my dress, which hardly reached my knees, "Florida? It's cold out.."

The boy behind me was taking my coat, and I realized they were all looking at me while I was still getting over the fact that they all were hot and no one wanted to rape me and I had to say something clever--"I'm from the land of POOR!" I blurted. I believe they may even have been amused.

It was no wonder I was having trouble finding my wit—my mind was occupied with the sea changes that were happening to it. The nagging anxieties of the past few hours—the agonies of the past few months—were banished in the swell of confidence I felt. It no longer mattered what other people wrote, or thought: I could feel the ease and mutual trust in the room, currents that would gently but inexorably move me to what I most wanted.

In short, dear readers, I melted. I went over to the kitchen, to mingle. The houseboy asked me if I wanted a drink.