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Finding The Right Vessel

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New Year’s resolutions are made to be broken say the folks who break them. Sometime this past January, I joined their ranks. While not clear on the exact wording of my resolution, it had something to do with making an effort to cultivate a “normal” relationship or one that gives the illusion of normalcy (mediocrity), so I joined a dating website. These are interesting institutions, but just because you pay thirty bucks a month, doesn’t mean it’s guaranteed to work. What is guaranteed, in Los Angeles anyway, is that if a man invites you over for dinner at his place it’s a clear indication that sex will follow. It was our second date. The drinks were great, the main course was nothing more than some sort of pasta and broccoli, dessert was three minutes of tube steak. There seems to be something about the way I flex my back muscles, arms outstretched across the headboard, while getting it from behind that makes a guy blow is wad. I should know better by now. I left feeling less than filled up.

Enter the start of my second week of work, behind the scenes, on some late, cable-channel films, aka Skinemax. Insult to injury is that I have been watching young, up and cumming porn stars dry-fuck each other for a week (as this is “soft-core” they don’t really do it in these, but the same kids do all the porn). I was more impressed with the female performers so far. Then one tall, blond, wall of a man and veteran of the genre rolled onto set. He seemed trashy and full of himself. After his first scene of the morning, it was obvious that he had made some of the men around set uncomfortable. I guess it was the way he reached around and grabbed his co-star (a leggy brunette) by the throat while he fucked her from behind. No one noticed me move closer to the monitor intrigued by his method. Or maybe it was the way he repeatedly smacked her ass, not hard, just enough.

A mild flirtation led to the divulgence that he was in from San Diego and needed a place to stay for the night. I needed someone to do it right. After work, I met him back at my place. I showed him my bedroom. He went down on me and plugged every hole he could find with a digit. Then we started the intercourse portion of our evening. For a second he almost let go. He got up out of bed abruptly and stretched. I was charmed by his consideration. He’s a biter, so we wrestled around a bit more before I got on top and rode that shit. Being much bigger than I, it was nothing for him to just flip me any which way he wanted and even take one opportunity to spit on my asshole,  a bit forward for a first night.  At some point there we were, looking into each other’s eyes with hands on each others throats. No asphyxiation (I don’t do that anymore) just enough pressure to let the other person know that we are there and long enough for a simultaneous climax.

Having some professional cock more than made up for the disappointing flop that had occurred the night before. The dating website guy called, but I never called back. I just can’t respect a guy who does it on the second date and I don’t feel the need to go back down that road if I don’t get off. My porn star, on the other hand, has been inviting me down to San Diego for a couple of weeks now and let me know when he was going on a small tour with Chippendale’s. Impressive? Yes. Dateable? No.  As they say, “A safe port in every town.”

Written by whiptcreeem

March 15, 2010 at 7:31 pm

Posted in sex stuff

Craigslist

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Well, the picture was hot enough anyway. A man with a thinly built, muscular frame, jeans worn loose around the waist and a chain menacingly wrapped around his hand, it was taken from a low-angle. Neck down only, too soon to start talking faces when trolling for sex on Craigslist. There is a whole array of entertaining images on Craigslist when you get away from the furniture ads and actually venture over to the personals section or more specifically “casual encounters.” The guys who post cock shots, the silly cartoons of fetishists, the filled up frames of BBW’s (big, beautiful women), personally I would stay away from anyone who hand scribbles out their own face with a Sharpie, but I don’t judge others for being into that sort of thing. Back to him: he wants to dominate me, tie me up, whip me and give me permission to cum. Not me in particular, yet, but whoever is reading his ad.
Formalities: I respond with a pic and sales pitch of my body and sexual prowess. He responds with more pics featuring his face and inquiring to my thoughts/feelings on anal. He’s not that bad, a bit cute actually. Let’s just call him “Craig”. Craig and I meet for coffee. The body is there, but , well let’s just say he takes better pictures. Still, I’m horny and I can work with this. Craig is into BD/sm, which stands for a myriad of different things. Bondage, Discipline (or Dominance)/submission (or sadism and masochism)*, I’m sure it all depends on what part of the country you’re from. Do you see how “BD” is capitalized and how it looms large over “sm?” These people take it that seriously. Somebody had to think that up.
It doesn’t go down after coffee, which I would have been cool with. It goes down a couple nights later after drinks at a bar near his house. For a guy looking for sex on a classifieds website, Craig really likes to talk and hang out. He’s a sweet nerd from a good upbringing and is a working professional at something I don’t remember. We go back to his place, I’m checking out the exits, I text a friend the address just in case I wind up missing, we get through the door and goofy, affable Craig says, very sternly, “Take your clothes off, get on your knees.”
I obey. “You will address me as Sir or Master.” I reply, “Yes, Sir.” Then Craig gets to work pulling out a leather collar, leather locking wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, and chains. He painstakingly fashions each one around the appropriate appendage and locks each one with tiny, little locks with a tiny, little key. He handcuffs my hands, and chains my hands to my feet. For extra measure, he chains me, via the collar, to the TV stand, just in case I try to make a run for it. There I am, lying naked on this guy’s floor, chained to the entertainment center and I think, “Damn, all it took was two vodka tonics.” Craig is manically clinging chains behind me, like Old Marley coming to warn Scrooge. This goes on for ten minutes while he rigs the chains through the, yes, metal d-rings attached to studs in the ceiling. They appeared only slightly conspicuous in the nautical-themed apartment decorated by his mother, come to find out later. As I lay there on the floor, I realize that none of this is about me and I don’t mean the de-humanizing aspect of BD/sm play, but this guy is into the meticulous set-up, the sound of chains, the pomp and circumstance, ritualistic aspect.
Eventually, Craig unshackles my feet and leads me from the floor to the new set-up and chains me, arms splayed upward and legs chained wide apart to two more d-rings bolted in the floor that were hidden in the shag carpet. He places a gag in my mouth and I protest when he tries to blindfold me, a wish he acquiesces to as a whole part of this lifestyle is into respecting people’s boundaries. It is in this position that he proceeds to spank me, hard, with a leather paddle until my body is simply convulsing forward, using the strength of the chains to catch and throw me in this ecstasy. All the while screaming and spitting with wild abandon through the gag in my mouth. Saliva ran down my chin, a sight that Craig enjoyed to no end. He whipped out a vibrator and used it on my clit.
I begged him to take me to the bedroom, again leading me there with my little collar and chain. Once we get to the bed, he pulls the chains that were connected to the bed frame out and begins the whole process again. He has a large, beautiful cock. I end up spending the night. However, we never got it right, for me anyway. Too much stimulation when I was chained in the upright position and not enough when I was chained to the bed. If I had a free hand, I could have corrected this matter and gotten off. But like I said earlier, I don’t think it was about me.
Craig invited me out for dinner a couple nights later and I joined him. It is here that I realized that I was not going to see him again. It became obvious that he wanted more than a kinky, on-line hook up. He spoke of couples he knew who had met in “the lifestyle” and have since gotten married. To be honest, I felt a little bad when he started talking about special ordering me my own set of wrist cuffs for my tiny wrists. I could see where this was going. I let the fling die, where it was born, in an e-mail. It goes without saying, “You can chain me up, but you can’t tie me down.”

* source: wikipedia

Written by whiptcreeem

August 6, 2009 at 10:12 pm

Admitting Defeet

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We had been friends for a few years. I could always count on him for a fine dinner, a glass of wine and a friendly good-bye. Nothing that remotely ever even smelled of sex or attraction, except maybe on my part in the beginning. That moment had been extinguished by the wise words of a now dearly departed confidante, “Sometimes, it’s good to  just be good friends.”

Honestly though, I spent a couple of years masturbating to thoughts of him. I held my breath at the end of every one of those purely platonic date nights in suspense only to drive off in my car, alone, repeating, “Sometimes, it’s good to just be good friends,” over and over until I could get home and release my frustrations on my own.

A couple of weeks ago, after a day of cruising galleries and a candlelit dinner, we decided to throw caution to the wind and do the damn thing. Five years of wondering and agonizing were about to culminate in a little, gorgeous boutique hotel in a dreamy college town where neither of us lived (neutral territory). He laid on the bed, inviting me to join him. I sat on top of him and kissed him. No turning back; now or never. Clothes came off, condom on and I was thrilled at his size, he had been holding out on me.

Then shit got awkward, in the worst way. Maybe it was the alcohol, perhaps the lights were too bright or the build up was just too much. Two good friends of the opposite sex finally dive in and for all our wonderful conversations on art, life, and love we don’t know where to put our arms. However, we persisted, we had to make it work even if the condom was too small. I reflected on how unlike all those fantasies rehearsed solo in my bed this had become and I started to rue de-robing. Then, in one final attempt to get this humdinger off the ground, he turned to me and said, “Maybe if you put your feet on it.”

I had been wearing sandals the whole day, but it was worth a try. He certainly did come back to life, for another minute anyway, preferring both feet as opposed to one I learned. After several more attempts at intercourse, it became apparent that the feet were the catalyst, like waving hands to control the oscillators and amplitude of a theremin, it only came to pitch when my feet were in direct contact. The sexiness of the moment was gone for me. Nothing left to do but leave him with a kiss as he jacked off with the hotel lotion.

I got to my car and started the drive home, all the while thinking, “Sometimes, it’s good to just be good friends.”

Written by whiptcreeem

July 21, 2009 at 7:23 pm

Posted in sex stuff