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The most exquisite hurt still shows with grey-green bruises on my shoulder blades and hips. Red finger trails down my spine have faded to buff pink but my ears remain tender from MB’s bites. Memories of the sweetest of physical pain from the first 24 hours with him are subsiding with the marks on my skin.
The hurt from the pit of uncertainty in my stomach and self pity from the last 72 hours remains.
We attacked each other within two minutes of stepping inside his front door. His lean limbs manipulated and pushed my frame into every permutation, hands pulled my hair, teeth bit my shoulders, nipples and lips. He drove into me more like a need than a desire, writhing, surging, driven by inner forces for our bodies to merge. I pushed back, not caring that my plans went out the window.
We launched at each other until sweat fell off us in sheets. Later I was in the kitchen on my knees with him in my mouth. After dinner I knelt at his feet and sucked while he tried to concentrate on a television show. We woke the next morning to more of everything until soreness overtook pleasure.
I don’t know what changed during the day but the crackle of electricity in the air turned to anxiety. He was avoiding me in the politest of ways. After the endless day I went into the study to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse — I found him messaging women on a dating web site, chatting to prospects for a threesome that night. His reasoning rang hollow at the already late hour. I got ready for bed and he said he’d be behind me.
Two hours after I dozed off, his side of the bed felt cold and flat. His usual earlybird habits were another contradiction. Stress spasmed through my abdominal wall. I stepped into the lounge and he had set up a bed on the floor, watching the end of a mindless Saturday night film. I think I dropped to my knees and asked why he was shutting me out. What has changed? What is wrong? Have I done something? Please, talk to me. He didn’t want to wake me up. I am here. I am warm. I am alive and want to be woken up. His face was kind but his words were empty. He asked if I was angry with him. I’m not angry. I’m confused. You were trawling for women on the web. You’re camped out here away from me. What’s wrong? He looked at me and said nothing. My night alone in bed lasted longer than the day I had waited out.
We crept around each other like enemies forced to share a prison cell, polite but guarded. Three days trying to avoid someone with courtesy feels like a month.
When we parted, he said, “I’m sorry” and I walked into the morning darkness with heavy bags and heart. It’s impossible for me to separate sex and emotions cleanly; I can’t show or accept intimacy without accompanying affection for someone. I feel more when things are good but hit the ground harder when they aren’t.
The plane shuddered in protest against heavy cloud cover as it ascended. I didn’t care if it crashed. Five minutes later we were above an endless field of marshmallow clouds and I wanted to stay up there forever, only thirty-nine thousand feet but a lifetime away from the confusion I had fled. After years of fearing flight, I understood the freedom of escaping the earth that we’re bound to by gravity.
The Drummer was sympathetic and soothing when he collected me, but rock hard beneath his pants when he placed my hand there. Conflicting emotions and physical responses from both of us. He craved release because of my absence and I needed punishment and cleansing.
He took me when we got home. Authoritatively, as if I were stolen property that had been returned to him. He marked me with his smell, returned his tongue to my mouth and stuffed my cunt with his manhood. After he filled my ears with insults about my sluttish ways, and our urgency had dissipated, he entered me from the side and masturbated me patiently and tenderly. I fell into his pattern and finished with a vibrator, purging quietly.
He asked to come on my vagina and arse. I sat before him and he spattered the bed coverings, my body, hair, pillow and bedhead; the residue of his abstinence when I was gone.
MB e-mailed an apology and explanation. It’s enough. We both hurt in complex and partly unexplainable ways — I hope my internal aches ease with the fading of my bruises.
This is harder than I imagined.
Arrangements with MB are confirmed and I need to think about the balance between packing everything I’d like to take and everything I’ll need to haul about town. It’s not a bad problem to have.
If rationing becomes necessary, it will be difficult to decide between my old favourite riding crop or a new leather strop that makes an almighty slapping sound. A few trial swats on my calf left a glowing red patch and pleasant sting. I’m not sure the sales assistant was amused with my smack “yes”, slap, “no”, whomp “not sure” with the contents of the shop’s toy rack until I found a strop with a sensation that matched its snap. I wanted something with equal capacity for pain as a paddle, but allowing greater flexibility at the gentler end of the spectrum. The strop will be a versatile tool in my small but growing arsenal.
The Drummer enjoyed feeling the strop’s barely-yielding edge trace the outline of his balls when we were masturbating him the other night. I couldn’t help myself and laid a few slaps on his inner thighs when he was rock hard and lost in a zone of pleasure. He experienced the sensory confusion of not knowing if the treatment was enhancing or distracting his enjoyment; afterwards he described it as, “interesting.” I’ll accept that as an invitation to keep playing with his perceptions of pain and pleasure when he’s in the mood to enter my world.
I am looking forward to seeing MB kneeling naked on his bed, legs parted slightly and straining against the double-ended clip joining the ankle cuffs. When he’s comfortable with his submission, I’ll repeat the ritual and lock his wrists behind his back. And drag the implement of my choice up and down the curves of his spine, giving him light smacks on his hands. And move around to mark his chest. And thighs: front, outer and their delicate inner. And calves. And run the gentlest of lines along his cock until it’s dripping with pre-cum. Must, must, must take the blindfold to complete the vision.
If rationing becomes necessary, it might be the riding crop that keeps its place. Thankfully, lips, tongue, teeth, hands, voice and evil thoughts have the broadest range of applications and don’t need packing.
It looks like The Drummer has a date lined up. The solo woman from the swingers’ party e-mailed him a ‘toe in the water’ note asking his opinion of the night and they have exchanged a few messages.
I was behind the eight ball.
“Did you give Dee your details?”
“Yes, I gave her my business card.”
“Oh. When was this?”
“Just before we left. You were sitting next to me in the lounge room.”
“Oh. I must’ve been distracted by the video of bear skin-wearing women being double penetrated by gladiator knights.”
That would be right. I miss the only exciting part of the evening.
Perhaps ‘our’ view that she too closely resembled a family friend was a projection of mine because he is keen to see her. They are organising a hook-up next week in a hotel. The Drummer has been turned off home visits after his last potential play mate invited him to her house and he was met by her and a female friend. Rather than the interesting surprise of a triple play, she and her friend decided our situation was the material of modern-day documentaries and only wanted him there to answer questions about our lifestyle.
I think Dee’s attending a swingers’ party by herself indicates she’s not a tyre kicker so I hope she and The Drummer have some fun. Tonight’s update is that she has asked if I’m coming along, but I still can’t get past the doppelganger aspect. They can get to know each other better and I’ll see what happens later down the track. That’s another reason blindfolds were invented, I suppose.
Insisting on a neutral meeting place has been one of the first rules The Drummer has mentioned. I’ve had only one lover in the last six months, possibly because my own list of rules keeps growing. Whoever assumes opening a relationship is like being given a master key to a brothel is wrong, especially when stepping through the potential landmines of jealousy, possessiveness and the type of communication to be conducted with others during ‘our’ time. It’s a delicate balancing act to manage interactions and respect tactful discretion without concealing information or providing too much detail.
Some of my rules of engagement have been long standing, such as not getting together with people in the workplace or with friends. I don’t need the gossip from the former and I’ve never been able to bear the thought of being naked with friends who I regard as brothers. I also don’t want to approach anyone who’s in both our social circles because it feels too claustrophobic. These filters reduce my pool of potential play mates to almost zero.
My newest decision is to not bother with once-off ‘normal’ encounters and only bite if a novel opportunity arises or one that could fulfil a fantasy. M1 introduced me to the psychology and practicalities of the submissive’s role in BDSM and MB is allowing me to unleash some dominant inner forces in the near future. I prefer a quality over quantity approach but perhaps I am still too closed about being open.
I sometimes wish I was brave enough to be more frank about my desires in a face-to-face environment because some of my fantasies involve people who don’t seem to lurk online. Police feature in my desires in scenarios with multiple men in uniform and proper handcuffs constraining my wrists and ankles. I need to stop dreaming about the men in blue and start asking.
Now, have we got over the taboo aspect yet?
Why is so much wrong with perceptions of anal sex in a supposedly modern society?
Somehow, opinions of sexual activities involving the anus fall into two main camps: Camp Stigma believes it’s still taboo and can only be discussed in whispered tones or as a joke attached to prostate gland health checks. The other is Camp Porn where the onslaught of modern-day XXX clips portrays aggressive double penetration of women screaming “fuck me harder ah ah ah” as the norm.
Anal sex is neither of those.
The rectum is a part of the anatomy where women *and* men can experience enjoyment and it’s important to move past the stereotype that anal sex is about a man fucking a woman up the bum. It’s a sexual experience for each partner involved and is a lot more enjoyable when everyone is open minded and considerate in regard to an encounter.
Women need stop to treating their anuses like sacred vessels when the topic of anal sex is raised. Everybody has a bum hole and some women like anal pleasure. Some don’t. Judgement and the ‘only bad girls and sluts do it’ attitude don’t do the sisterhood and feminism any favours.
It’s also a step backwards to belittle a male partner who might want to try fingers, tongues, toys or a strap-on in his own anus. He’s not automatically gay, bisexual, sissified, perverted, dirty or whatever other demeaning label can be slapped on him. He trusts enough to share part of his desires and that trust needs to be treated with respect. (A man wanting to dress like a woman while being fucked anally with a strap-on in a humiliation scenario is a different story altogether. Bitchy Jones expands on backwards feminisation better than I ever can.)
I will be correct in guessing most of the women who read this will nod familiarly when reminded of men “accidentally” trying to slide into the anus during vaginal sex. We all know which hole is which and ignorance should not be used as an underhanded entrance tactic, ever. Discussion is a better way of communicating desires and how they might be shared and enacted.
Some real-life practicalities
S-l-o-w is the order of the day. There’s nothing wrong with building up stimulation over a period of weeks until trying penile penetration. Taking time with preparation might make the success rate higher for regular anal activity to be included in a sexual repertoire if each partner enjoys the session. The perception that the giver is the enthusiastic partner and the receiver is the anxious partner needs to be given the boot with lots of slow, careful build-up so it’s pleasurable for everyone.
Just like sex as a term should not always imply a penis in a vagina, anal sex should not automatically mean a penis in an anus. Think more broadly into the range of activities that can take place between male/female, male/male and female/female. Try a gently buzzing vibrator or hand stimulation to the external areas during oral sex and build up to a lubricated finger, a tongue, a butt plug, then a penis over different sessions if each partner wants to keep experimenting and building on the foundation. Not everyone is going to move at the same speed or like the same things.
Use toys designed for anal use. They are shaped they way they are and have flared bases for a reason. This is not the time to play with the contents of the vegetable crisper, beer bottles or other household goods. The hospital emergency ward stories are true.
Safety and comfort are the orders of the day and condoms and lube are a must. Lubed condoms can be good as they maintain their ‘lubiness’ but use in addition to condom-safe lube.
There should be more talking than grunting. Keep checking into each other’s welfare and sensations so it’s a shared experienced and not one-sided in the favour of the giver. The recipient is in control of what’s happening at all times.
Anal penetration does feel different to vaginal penetration for women and it can take time to adapt and relax into the new sensations.
Ignore that porny stunt of a man penetrating a woman’s anus, returning to the vagina, back to the anus and repeating. That is a rapid-fire way to a urinary tract infection. Porn producers cut the non-sexy scenes like disinfecting genitals to avoid cross-contamination but here we are dealing with real life.
Do not use one unsuccessful episode as an excuse to shut the door completely to anal sex. No one was accomplished at kissing, oral sex or vaginal sex the first few times and anal play is no different. Women in particular use the, “I’ve tried it once and hated it” line, which may not be fair to future partners with more skill and experience.
My rules of play
I like fingers and smaller toys, especially during oral sex but I’m still not converted to the sensations when a penis is moving around in there. I see it as part of a total experience with a partner – I have quirks that aren’t shared by everyone so it’s part of the give and take of sexual desires and is an ongoing project.
A side-effect for me is farting uncontrollably for several hours after receiving something of decent size up there so timing is a consideration. For practicality’s sake, I’m not going to take it up the arse the afternoon of a family dinner.
I’m not keen on one-night-stands anyway but I won’t receive anal sex with a partner I don’t know well. It’s on my mental list of things to do only with trusted partners.
Any man who goes near my anus with his penis before “warm-up” play will either be told to fuck off or re-educated. I don’t have time for people who think they can pretend their way into experience if they don’t already have it. Honesty goes a long way.
Any man who wants to play in my dark hole without reciprocation of some kind needs to have a good reason and not a closed mind, or he will also be told to fuck off or re-educated. It’s a game both genders can enjoy and my role is not as a one-way receptacle.
I won’t do anything with a higher risk of pain or discomfort for me under the influence of alcohol or anything mind bending. Consciousness and awareness always.
I’ve never had an anal douche, enema or colonic irrigation and don’t plan starting now. Anal play can smell and brown bits sometimes lurk in the rectum. I’m not a fan of those aspects but I’m less keen on pretending that my arse is fresher than a daisy. I know when the path is at its clearest and will communicate that.
Any man in my orbit who wants to try being the recipient is hot. Bring that bottle of lube over here and let’s play.
I would like to write that my worst fears of a meat market were realised and I put on a tantrum and swanned out of the house party like a woman possessed by virtuous principles, but that wouldn’t be true. I would like to write that The Drummer and I met hordes of like-minded couples and enjoyed hours of grinding and bumping and fucking and can barely walk today, but that wouldn’t be true, either. The truth is more and less interesting all at the same time, and nothing like the pre-conceptions in my previous post.
We went to the swingers’ party but neither of us had sex. I don’t know if that labels us swingers or not. It reminds me of the rock’n’roll analogy that we went on the tour but didn’t get the t-shirt.
The Drummer finished work early and came home with dinner while I searched for something alcoholic to take the edge off my nerves. The best I could find was the last slug in a bottle of white rum with some flat diet cola, but down the hatch it went.
Later The Drummer, dressed in jeans, loafers and shirt, jiggled his car keys as I watched television and wondered where time went. At the last minute I showered, applied make-up and threw on a black shirt, skirt, stay-up (the liars) stockings and heeled pumps in record time. There was nothing stopping us from going although we giddily reminded ourselves in the driveway that no one was forcing us.
It was the quickest 25-minute drive in time-warp history to an average house in an average street in an average outer suburb. Average cars were parked on the street and an average-looking couple walked up the driveway to Swinging Central while The Drummer and I sat in our darkened car and checked them out. We indulged in a mini-argument when a car parked behind us because I wanted to wait until they too had entered the house. I am rational under fire. The lone man who emerged from the car loped to the front door and I fretted that perhaps the couples-only rule had been broken, but he was turned around with quiet efficiency.
The organiser beckoned us in the door with a friendly flourish. She and her husband were of an age to have adult children who had flown the coop so the spare bedrooms could be turned into orgy dens. She had breasts left to run loose in a singlet-style bodysuit with her bottom half dressed in a leather skirt half a size too large and simple scuffs on her feet. I didn’t realise until later that the ‘regular’ women wore similar outfits: stretch fabric dresses or singlets and skirts for quick removal and re-dressing, and kick-off shoes that wouldn’t cost a packet to replace if they got lost under someone’s nightstand. The men started in casual wear that disappeared into a selection of fabric and leather g-strings. About six couples were in the kitchen and lounge room when we were taken on the house tour and we were the youngest by at least a decade.
On reflection after checking out our potential playmates, we had selected the right environment for our first party but it was the wrong age group on the night. There’s plenty of time in my future years to be with people entering their sixth and seventh decades and it just isn’t now.
Later a younger couple arrived and we struck up a conversation. It was L’Homme and La Femme’s first party as well and we laughed nervously when we exchanged tales of summoning the courage to knock on the door. They were attractive and friendly but I struggled to maintain small talk and settle into a groove.
The Drummer asked La Femme if she was interested in playing and she answered that she wasn’t ready at that time. I would have been interested in watching and possibly joining if she assented but it wasn’t to be for any of us. They were the first to leave and didn’t spend time in the bedrooms. The Drummer offered our phone number if they wanted to meet in a quiet setting another time but they didn’t take him up when they left. C’est la vie.
We spent the next hour watching male-centric porn with the sound replaced with classic hits and memories music. I broke one unspoken rule of a house party, it seems. When the DVD ended of Gladiator-style heroes with puzzling facial expressions double penetrating bear skin-clad women, I started looking through the spindle of DVDs for something less misogynistic. Within seconds of lifting the first disc off the platter, the house owner materialised from thin air and took the stack from my hands with a cold stare. I blushed and handed back the ‘XXX Assorted’ I had taken from the top. He selected a disc and we were subjected to more interchangeable Eastern European women in gang bangs and facial cum shots with men wearing Grim Reaper-style rubber masks on their heads. I couldn’t see how that would excite anyone of any sexual persuasion.
A compact, eager woman in her forties sat next to us to chat. Her candour was refreshing when she confessed to driving around the block several times before parking the car. It was a shame she reminded The Drummer and I too much of a family friend because she wandered off and returned to invite him to romp as we talked about going home. We all deliberated — I’d have hung around in the lounge room if it was an hour earlier but we were tired and I wasn’t part of her invitation. We said goodbyes and saw her leaving as we drove off. Brave woman for getting off her backside and taking a chance.
We didn’t talk much in the car on the way home as we made sense of the evening in our own minds. Everyone in the 10 or so couples was welcoming and understanding of our first-night nerves. We were included in conversations if we wanted to join in and left to our own devices when we needed down time. Disappearances into the bedrooms were discreet and no one crowded doorways to view the action or intrude. For a while I thought it was a shame I didn’t share the regulars’ relaxed attitudes, but we do things at our own pace and mine on the night was slow and unco-ordinated. I need time to reflect and understand how new experiences fit into my world view.
We got home and The Drummer went straight to bed and I stayed up, roamed the house for a while and listened to the rain falling outside. Sorry for not jumping your bones, darling, but seeing uncle-aged figures in leopard print g-strings and non-stop dreadful porn put up a ‘closed until further notice’ sign on my genitals.
By this afternoon we were on the web looking at larger-scale swingers’ parties so it can’t have been all bad. I doubt it’s something I’ll do regularly, but there’s no reason to exclude it from our repertoire when the mood strikes.
The Drummer and I are going to our first swingers’ party tonight. He is having an afternoon nap while I am trying to figure out why my resting heart rate is about 30 beats a minute above average. I can feel it kerthudding out of my chest a little too quickly to be mistaken for a bosom heaving in anticipation.
A few nights ago The Drummer called the event’s organiser and I listened in on speakerphone. It’s a couples only night, everything is supplied except drinks and her warm, matronly voice finished with, “Don’t feel like you have to do anything.” The blindingly obvious often brings my impatience to the surface, but she must’ve said it for a reason. I wonder how many couples go to these functions for the first time and feel compelled to become part of the scene because of their own – or others’ – social expectations. Conversely, there must be duos who enter a party with rattling nerves but uncover a new universe of sharing their sexual selves.
We often enter situations that could end in reward with gritted teeth because we have handed our sense of control to someone else. Job interviews, confessing love for someone, pushing boundaries in a new context all depend on ticking the right boxes, passing tests of sometimes dubious construction and being dependent on others to validate our success. We are good at talking ourselves out of things if our worth is not reciprocated … I didn’t want that job anyway … I knew he wasn’t Mister Right … the swingers’ scene is definitely overrated.
In deconstructing my butterflies, I don’t feel in control of this situation because most of it is new. The others know more than me, have already been through the first-night awkwardness. I don’t enjoy entering social settings where I don’t know anyone and I’m sober (and too sensible to get trolleyed because I want to be in control of my decisions), and I just don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s all nothing that can’t be fixed with a confident facade and reminder that I am charge of myself and my actions.
I hope the atmosphere is respectful because courtesy and respect underpin my ideology of any kind of contact. If my secondary concern comes to fruition of being leered at like a free vagina on legs, the car is outside and we can chalk it down to experience. It’s difficult to express this defensiveness and judgement; perhaps it’s memories of the final hours at some hotels when men assembled outside the women’s toilets looking for take-home opportunities before last drinks were called. Hopes are fine but expectations are a turn-off. I don’t know if an orgiastic gathering would have better manners on the whole than a sample of any other hormonally-charged microcosm but it’s part of my uncertainty — I’ve read enough experienced swingers’ blog entries to believe the meat market mentality isn’t dead. I don’t have the energy for that crap and I don’t like what it’s brought out in my character in preparing to defend myself just in case.
By this time tomorrow I’ll be shaking my head at this text and calling myself a catastrophising fool, but that’s how I am. I have spent enough time on the psychologist’s chair (they don’t seem to have couches these days) to locate a point of mental resistance and prod until it comes to the surface and presents itself for inspection.
Hello surging mass of fear, you aren’t that big after all but the noise you make is rather loud and far reaching. I will detach you into a separate entity so I can hold you in my hand and laugh at you when I’m ready. Until then, I can take solace that I won’t be the only nervous-looking person in the room (I hope).
Inner forces have swung to the dominant and are telling me to find and mark male backsides in pretty hues of scarlet. My dom/sub experience has focused on finding and releasing my submissive side but there’s an equally strong pull in the dominant direction.
The urge has been lurking under the cover of darkness, waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.
There are few challenges with finding sub men online who offer themselves blithely without as much as an introductory meeting, but they seem *too* quick to submit. Any man who offers to kneel before me without discussing mutual desires and boundaries is probably not someone with the quiet pride and inner strength I seek. Ready and immediate submission screams passive rather than submissive and leaves my blood running cold.
I don’t want target practice; I want an experience.
MB might be the answer to scratch my itch. We met briefly through work and have stayed in occasional e-mail contact. After an exchange of spirited messages, I wrote that I had the tools to temper some of his cheekiness and he would not want me to use them. He bit the cherry.
He is curious about power exchange and is intrigued that giving himself to me is a demonstration of his personal power. I can only move within and push the boundaries that he sets. I can’t take unless he’s willing to give. I don’t want the right to hurt until I’m worthy of his resolute trust.
MB is a natural leader and will make me work. The prospect of earning his suffering is both exhilarating and nerve wracking.
I’ve been procrastinating about the offer because he lives a plane ride away. I feel safe and have a friend I can call on if chemistry is lacking and I need a get-out plan, however, I have been questioning my sanity in travelling so far for a handful of days. Perhaps a few rounds of leather on my own posterior are required to force a simple decision.
I also need to think about what this experience might offer that I can’t have or do locally. Maybe packing the tools into a (locked) bag and collecting them from the airport baggage carousel is part of the adventure. Dare you to search my bag, airline employees.
I did the mature thing and flipped a coin. Heads, I go. Tails, I say no.
It came up heads.
The flight is booked. I am shitting bricks.
The Drummer has offered to drive me to the airport, bless him and his open mind.
The Drummer wants to go to a swingers’ event. He found a local organiser of couples’ parties and needs a woman to go with him. That would be me.
We’ve been discussing it for months but haven’t taken the plunge, primarily because of his work schedule and partly because of my procrastination and rollercoaster body image. Is my bum too big for these swingers?
The passing interest I have in going is more intellectual than physical. I’m curious about what people get up to when monogomy’s boundary fence is pushed to the ground. For me, the thought of being eyed off and hit on or rejected reminds me of waiting to get picked for a school sports team, but the game is team fucking rather than netball. It’s the ‘glass is half-empty’ approach: in a room full of adults who want to get naked without complications, I fret about what I might do if I don’t feel like doing anyone.
The Drummer’s glass is half full as he sees a party as an opportunity to meet people whose attendance already flags they like and want casual sex. I wish I could hit the ’stop’ switch to my brain and think like him more often.
In a detached but curious way, I’d like to see a dozen women lined up and waiting for The Drummer while he hammers them all in a row. Part of this desire is because he rarely orgasms from penetration and can make mince out my vaginal walls and thigh muscles. He has outlasted several thousand dollars of prostitutes and sessions that have rendered my hands, mouth and cunt useless. It’s like a female-centric pissing contest of my imagination’s making: are any other players in Team Estrogen tougher and more robust than me?
I’m also going to hold up a mental mirror and see how other women interact with The Drummer. Strip my perceptions of his sexual identity, give him to some strangers and observe what they do with him. I wonder how my refreshed eyes will see him after the party. Jealousy that he’s lusted after and had sex with other women? Pride that others find him attractive but I get to take him home? Or the same because the qualities that make him my partner haven’t changed, but he’s just added some new notches to his bedpost?
Part of the give and take of opening our relationship last year has been to accept – and appreciate — the differences in our sexual wiring. The Drummer has done a beautiful job of embracing my forays into our new sexual frontier with an open mind and more enthusiasm than me at times. The least I can do is let him loose among the hen house and see how many feathers he can send flying. You never know, I might turn off the inner critic and enjoy myself.
Why clog the blogiverse with more tales of unusual sexual habits?
It’s pure selfishness. The brain’s machinations need airing without the real-world fallout from revelation of non-traditional relationships and physical interactions. Thoughts sometimes crave somewhere quiet to be expressed, reflected upon and interpreted.
Forcing the mind’s niggles into firm thoughts on the screen can clarify feelings and illuminate the why that results from the what of stumbling across this lustful universe.
Recollections and reflections might strike a chord with readers of the future, but there’s no pretending this purging is for altruistic reasons. Everyone is free to read, validate, repudiate or add their own twists to this kind of diary but ultimately it is one person’s version of life.
Perhaps thinking and chronicling is purely an act of discipline. I like discipline.
I don’t like writing. It feels like lugging vowels and consonants from the heart, wrangling them and obsessing until they resemble what I want to communicate. But I can’t stop. Like discipline.
